


Carry On Up The Dales

by coveredinfeels



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe, Bull is a porn star, M/M, but also a mother hen, except in Bull's pants, he multitasks, no magic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-29
Updated: 2018-02-26
Packaged: 2018-04-06 18:40:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 38,903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4232592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coveredinfeels/pseuds/coveredinfeels
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>possible subtitle: and other reasons The Iron Bull is no longer allowed to suggest titles for his films</p><p>In which Dorian is just getting used to his new life in Ferelden, when he discovers that his upstairs neighbour is somebody he knows.</p><p>And by knows he means recognises from the movies, and by movies he means porn, and by recognises he means has had a slight obsession with since Rilienus taught him the twin joys of proxy servers and sites that charge their subscription to your credit card under names like ART FILMS, INC.</p><p>(also: in which Halward is an asshole, as always, Rilienus is kinda a jerk, Felix remains perfect because Felix, and Sera is the mystical goddess who grad students pray to when they want free leftover sandwiches to turn up)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The apartment the university housing office finds for him is in a block made of bricks the colour of druffalo shit, but it is also on a bus-route, and within his now limited means, not to mention miles better than the temporary accommodation he had on first arrival to Ferelden, so so he cannot complain.

That's a lie. He just can't complain to anybody else. The locals probably see nothing wrong with this, and the only people he's still in regular contact from Tevinter are Felix, who will be sympathetic, but all things considered Dorian feels like an arse complaining to him, and Rilienus, who can be a wonderful sounding board but currently cannot have a conversation without name-dropping the Orlesian ski instructor he's cheating on his wife with. Apparently he's not worried about divorce because he quote-"totes screwed her in the pre-nup♥"-unquote. Dorian doesn't even know why they're still friends sometimes.

It is, at least, solid enough of a building that the weather is semi-bearable. In the privacy of his own room, Dorian piles mismatched blankets on the bed and buys fuzzy bed-socks. He also spends far too large a chunk of his stipend on a warm yet stylish coat he hopes offsets the rest of his wardrobe. It is an investment item, which is to say he probably cannot afford to replace it before he graduates. He finds himself eyeing thrift shops, although Ferelden thrift-shops do not seem to offer much opportunity to find some vintage brand-name items, the sort you can humble-brag about-- _oh, this? just something I picked up_ \-- the sort of thing that would imply you're not buying things there because you _have_ to.

At least his research is interesting. He never thought about it before, how much of the lost Tevinter empire there must be left down in the squalid south. An empire viewed through the eyes of those it reigned over - and there is so much, it's fascinating. Scholars of ancient Tevene are apparently thin on the ground in Ferelden; some of the items have never been translated before.

He loves it. He can forget everything else when he buries himself in research. Including, admittedly, to eat, but Josephine, the ever efficient department secretary, provides a constant flow of snacks apparently supplied by her girlfriend who works in the catering department and doesn't believe in food waste, or something.

Dorian has never met Josephine's girlfriend and forgets her name, but given that he doesn't actually know how to cook and even thinking about his food budget makes him wince, he often praises her existence. Like today, when he spent long enough on this last bit of work that when he emerges from a fog of rune inscriptions everyone else has gone home except that one guy who always sleeps at his desk. Somebody-- he presumes Josephine's girlfriend-- has stacked some slightly stale muffins and a pile of bananas on top of the empty desk nearest the door. Whoever it is has taken the time to arrange one particularly large banana with a muffin either side.

There is also a post-it note that says "PENIS", in case the joke was too subtle.

Rude jokes aside, this means he has dinner for tonight (leftovers and muffins make it a two course meal, right?), and breakfast sorted for the rest of the week. It will be nice to eat fruit again. He realises that thought is somewhat pathetic-- venhedis, he's happy about _free fruit_ \-- but such is his life now.

Yawning, he wanders through the front entrance and vaguely towards the mailboxes, not that he ever gets anything of interest. It will be junk mail, bills, and maybe more well-meaning invitations from that woman who has him on her list of 'Tevinter refugees' at the university and doesn't understand that pretty much anyone else under that classification is likely to hate Dorian on sight.

Also, the sheer wretched embarrassment of explaining the details of his situation is something he was willing to suffer through to get legal residency, not something he'd like to discuss over drinks and nibbles. The fewer people who know that Dorian is anything but just another foreign student, drawn here by the rich local history (ha!) and the cheap beer (certainly growing on him), the better.

He blinks, the sight in front of him distracting him for a moment from feeling sorry for himself. There is someone blocking his mailbox. Not on purpose, just that he's a rather large Qunari, fishing something out of what is presumably his own mailbox. Dorian hesitates. That profile is familiar-- no, surely not. There must be lots of Qunari with horns like that.

Then he turns around. "Oh, hey! Sorry, am I in your way?"

He steps aside, and Dorian bobs his head, embarrassed, and digs his mailbox key out of his pocket, dropping it-- wonderful, just _wonderful_ , he's making a total fool of himself. But there's the eyepatch-- that's a real thing then, not just a prop-- and The Iron Bull is, if anything, _bigger_ in real life and what _is_ the etiquette for introducing yourself to someone whose pornographic videos you may have watched approximately, well, far too many times, anyway?

The Iron Bull doesn't seem to notice the fact that Dorian is freaking out. "You're the new guy in 404? Haven't seen you around much."

"I'm a graduate student. I think we're obligated to keep strange hours." Look, he can do this. Joke about graduate students, hold out his hand, introduce himself like a normal human being. "Dorian."

"The Iron Bull." His hands are _huge_. Dorian knows that (he's all _big_ ), but seeing them dwarf his own is something else entirely. "Call me Bull, if you'd prefer. I'm in 504, so if you need anything you can, you know, just bang on the ceiling or something. You haven't had any problems with noise? I know my boys can get a little rowdy when they come over for drinks."

"No problems. You've been a model ceiling neighbour." What is he even saying-- _ceiling neighbour_? That's not a thing. That's not a thing people say.

Bull chuckles. "Well, just let us know if you want us to keep it down. Or come up for a drink, there's always plenty to go around."

Dorian nods mutely, because if he opens his mouth he might say something ridiculous like _did you just invite me to an orgy?_ , grabs his mail without looking at it and sprints up the stairs, because taking the elevator might involve being in an enclosed space with _The Iron Bull_ and he's not sure he's ready for that.

Practically stumbling, panting, through his front door, he is again reminded that he spends too much time bent over notes and no longer has a gym membership. Maybe he should start taking the stairs more often. It will reduce the risk of ending up in an elevator with anybody he's had a ridiculous-- _thing_ for since he was old enough to have a credit card his father paid off without looking too closely at what Dorian was spending his money on.

He grabs his phone, hesitates. This probably isn't the sort of thing Felix would want to hear about.

 _The Iron Bull is in my apartment block_ he sends, and waits.

He gets an answer in about thirty seconds, because for all Rilienus' faults, he can certainly be relied upon to respond in a situation like this.

_lol_  
_did he come with a delivery_  
_a BIG PACKAGE_  
_srsly tho has f'den sent you mad already_  
_Riri are you hallucinating porn stars_  
_blink three times if you need help_

Dorian scowls at his phone. _No, he apparently lives here. I'm serious_

_pics or it didn't happen_  
_also if it did happen, GET ON THAT_  
_ride it_  
_i'm throwing new years party in v.r. this year_  
_you should bring him_  
_that would be LEGEND_  
_i'll send a jet to pick you up_  
_i'll give you a jet_  
_RIRI, WHY U NO RESPOND_  
_IT BETTER BE FOR SEXY REASONS_

He lets the phone buzz like a crazed hornet for a while, while he carefully hangs his coat up, goes to reheat dinner. _I am making dinner. And nothing happened or is going to happen. And you are to tell nobody._

_I AM THE SOUL OF DISCRETION_  
_but GET ON THAT_  
_also i know you have a thing about telling me your address_  
_and fair enough because y.k.w. keeps asking da to ask me if i know where you are_  
_but like if you need stuff i could get it to you_  
_i could hire somebody to like have a password and meet you at the train station, like a spy movie_  
_if they have train stations in f'den_  
_if they know what trains are in f'den_

He sighs at the phone, looking at the cramped apartment, his reheated noodle dinner, the boots he's praying last through the winter. _I'm fine, Ril._

_you more than fine, baby, you hot_  
_you could totally pull a porn star_  
_invitation to party still valid without porn star btw_  
_you know you could just come to v.r. and hang_  
_the apartment is empty most of the time anyway_  
_so you could just stay here_  
_i bet f'den is shit_  
_let me help you out_

That-- is more tempting than it ought to be, and also the worst idea possible. He has his suspicions about why Rilienus asks, though. _Did you break up with Phillipe?_

_orlesians are sluts_  
_and not in the good way_  
_i miss you_  
_i am drunk before you ask but my feelings are validate_  
_valid_

He winces. Great. Rilienus maudlin and drunk enough to forget why their fledgling relationship crashed and burned in the first place, even before the stupid git went and got married. At least the train-wreck that is Rilienus' love-life is something of a distraction from the train-wreck that is Dorian's pretty much everything. _Please don't, Ril. Just tell me about him, and I'll tell you all the reasons you deserve better._

There is a longer than usual pause.

_maybe if better wasn't hiding out in fucking ferelden_  
_go fuck your porn star_

Okay, or maybe not. _Go sleep it off, Ril_ , he writes, and then plugs the phone in in the kitchen, where he won't have to hear it buzzing all night. He takes a quick look over his mail - nothing postmarked from Tevinter, and that hurdle passed, the rest he can safely ignore until the morning - and then settles down for the night with a good book.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning: contains Halward.  
> but then, also dragons.  
> sadly, dragons do not eat Halward

One of the things to be added to the list of things Rilienus is responsible for in Dorian's life is The Iron Bull, initially by the roundabout route of teaching Dorian what a proxy server is so he can access blocked political websites and illicit pornography.

Given that "illicit" as far as Tevinter was concerned was pretty much anything Dorian had ever had an interest in, that covered quite a range of options. Curled up in his bed with the bedroom door safely locked, though, the images Dorian obsessed over were a set of arty shots making the rounds of various blogs, an elf bound in elaborate ropework in the lap of a giant qunari, somehow managing to make every action look gentle despite the fact that the man himself looked like an extra from the cast of a pirate movie.

Rilienus' fault, again, for finding said images on his hard drive, and after making fun of him, telling him where to look for more. "Figures you'd like the indie stuff. You have a credit card with an Orlais address on it, right?"

Of course he does. There's an entire industry built up around quietly circumventing inconvenient bits of Tevinter law. This is how he ends up with a subscription to a site that features 'alternative kink', including a few things which are just plain confusing (the balloon thing, for example), a few things which he already knew he liked, and a growing number of things to which his reaction is _oh_ , possibly followed by frantic downloading of every video similarly tagged.

Things tend to fall into the last category in particular if The Iron Bull is involved. It's as far from acceptable an interest as it may be possible to get, he knows, but he can't stop himself. There are other qunari on the site, but none he likes as much.

Nobody can know, of course. Rilienus teases him about his qunari fetish, but Dorian could never admit to him that it's sort of turning into qunari, _singular_. Not to Rilienus, who calls him 'adorable' when he mentions anything about wanting, you know, an actual relationship, and says _you're such a romantic, riri_ like it's a personal failing on Dorian's part. Rilienus who doesn't see any issues with getting married, even though he has been serially cheating on his fiancee since they got engaged and doesn't appear to have any intent to stop once she's legally his wife.

No, he definitely can't talk to Rilienus about this inappropriate-- crush, or whatever it is-- and with Felix he doesn't feel comfortable with getting _specific_ about his interests, as supportive as he can be in general, and there's actually nobody else who knows he likes men who he also is actually friends with, as opposed to passing 'acquaintances' who studiously ignore him when they're in polite company.

So The Iron Bull starts off as his own little secret, something to distract him from the way everything else is falling apart. In public, he is the beloved only son of a well-respected family. In private, Dorian fights with his father, more and more. Halward wants to control everything - which is why Dorian goes to Minrathous for his bachelors degree, while Rilienus parties his way through his studies in Orlais. Halward insists on paying for a serviced apartment close to the campus in a building with a doorman who probably gets paid to report his every movement and a maid who he suspects goes through his things when he's out. He queries every choice Dorian makes, has his personal assistant plan dates for him with Livia, and then gets angry when Dorian's reaction to this is to skip classes, go drinking, and find somewhere to sleep the night where he doesn't feel like his father is peering at him through the windows.

Dorian does graduate, mostly thanks to one Professor Gereon Alexius, but of course, that's not enough, either.

When it gets bad, his darkest little secret is to lock himself in his room, stick his headphones in and listen to the soundtrack off one of The Iron Bull's videos, just to hear his voice. His favourite is this one where the Iron Bull's getting a blowjob, and he just talks the guy through it, and it's not crude or degrading but somehow sweet and loving and Dorian might never have that but he thinks it might be what he wants.

He makes plans to go to graduate school in Orlais, and hopes if he puts together a good enough case about the prestige of the university and how good it will be for his career his father won't think too hard about anything else Val Royeaux is known for, like fifteen of the top twenty gay bars in Thedas, for example.

And for a little while, he even thinks it's going to work.

Dorian is stupid.

So stupid.

* * *

He looks at the mail in the morning-- charity wanting money he doesn't have, invitation to some local chantry thing, something from the university...

He pauses, and opens that one, but it's nothing serious, just some survey from the housing office, _please let us know what you thought of our service_.

Considering what he knows about his neighbors now? They get either five stars or _none _, and he's not sure which. Maybe none, for putting the stupid survey on actual dead trees instead of just emailing him.__

Breakfast is a banana (praise be to you, girlfriend-of-Josephine) and a quick check of his email. The highpoint is a notice about a 'Films of Thedas' festival, and of course they put down _Magister Argentis_ for Tevinter, it's apparently the only Tevene film anybody down here knows. But there's a note at the bottom saying they need people to help set up and work concessions, a couple of hours minimum wage pay _and_ free tickets, so he sends the woman running it an email.

Last is his phone; primary new content, thirty or forty increasingly emotionally unstable messages from Rilienus ending in poorly spelled apologies. Protocol for these cases is that he doesn't respond and then they start talking again after about three days, pretending none of it ever happened. With any luck he'll meet a masseuse or get a new personal trainer or something in the meantime; Rilienus only decides he's still in love with Dorian when he's between affairs.

Also one message from Felix, with a photo of him in his new wheelchair, a weird looking thing which presumably has come from one of the places Alexius has been throwing research funding or startup money at lately. Although he can't see anybody from the Weisshaupt Institute being behind this beast. It looks like somebody has designed it with the idea to let Felix cope with any eventuality, possibly including imminent zombie attack. Dorian ignores how terribly pale Felix looks in the photo and writes back _Nice. You should put racing stripes on it._

He decides to go down the stairs; having pretty much fled up them last night, he's probably going to have to basically use the stairs all the time now, and claim that it's for his health. Which it is. It's not that he's avoiding anybody.

Anybody's not even in the front hall when he gets down, and he feels like an idiot.

* * *

The rest of the week starts to look up. That morning, he finds out that Solas, the guy who researches elven antiquities and is somewhat terrifying, is absent this week, giving a talk at some conference somewhere not-here, which means that Dorian can read books on elvish history on his lunch break without feeling anyone silently judging him from across the room. He is _trying_ to fix the gaps in his education, is that such a crime?

In the afternoon, he meets with Leliana, head of the university film society and organiser of the film festival, and in the process of discussing the film festival she pays for his coffee, and manages to get him to agree to put together a short-list of Tevene films they might run at some of their other events by the cunning method of agreeing with his opinion on _Magister Argentis_.

It seems like quite a good hobby, as things go. He likes film, and he likes having opinions on things. Maybe he'll even meet somebody-- _oh yes, we met through the film society_ he imagines saying, and he likes the sound of that, too. That sounds like the sort of thing people do, meet through a common hobby and/or interest. Not that he's never had, well, a _thing_. He's had things. Do dark corners and avoiding scandals count as 'common interests'?

Wednesday there is a talk by a visiting professor which is mildly interesting but, more importantly, comes with free sandwiches. Dorian thinks he's getting the hang of this self-sufficiency lark. He stops by the coffee shop again, where nobody buys him a coffee but the barista does give him a free extra shot and then flirt with him until the next person in line (apparently a friend) says "Oi, Delrin, would you stop slobbering all over this guy for a second and make my latte already?"

That's a thing in Ferelden, apparently. Men flirt with you in coffee shops and the only negative reaction is from somebody suffering caffeine withdrawal. He has an extra loyalty card stuffed in his wallet with a phone number on it. He's not entirely sure if he's going to call it or not, but he could. He could go on a date. In _public_. He could go out for dinner, or invite him to to the film festival, or something.

With this happy thought in mind, he comes home, idly opening his mailbox and filtering the junk mail directly into the recycling bin. How many leaflets for that local pizza joint do they think one person could possibly _need_?

Then he sees his name; not just his name, but his name in his father's handwriting, and his heart stops.

He retreats to his room to read it.

_Dorian,_

_Your mother and I have been terribly worried about you. While we do have our differences, I would hope that you could speak to me about them as an adult, instead of running off like a child._

_I do understand that a young man feels the need to see the world a little. My concern now is for your safety and comfort during this undertaking of yours. You will find enclosed the address of a real estate company in Ferelden who will be able to introduce you to more appropriate lodgings, for which I am willing to pay. Also a card for your expenses - not for frivolities._

_You should come home for the holidays. It pains my heart to think of you alone in a foreign land._

_Your loving father.  
_

How did his father even get his address? Not even Felix knows his actual address. Putting aside the standard attempts at emotional manipulation and bids for financial control-- "our differences"? As if this was some sort of minor squabble, as if he hadn't-- as if Dorian would _come home for the holidays_ , as if that wouldn't end up with him bundled off to yet another 'retreat'.

He tips the envelope out; the business card for the real estate company that would undoubtedly be ever so glad to help him let his father have control over every part of his life again, and a credit card-- he should destroy that, shouldn't let himself be tempted. He doesn't need his father's money.

Something pricks at the back of his mind.

He turns the envelope over.

There's no address.

There's no stamp.

There's only his name, in his father's familiar, elegant handwriting.

His father has someone in Ferelden. His father has someone in Ferelden watching him. His father has someone in Ferelden who was _in his building_.

His throat tightens. The walls seem to close in around him. This place isn't safe. He needs to get out-- he needs--

There's a muffled thump from above. He's never paid much attention to such minor noises before.

The Iron Bull is home.

* * *

In the space of the time it takes him to get up one flight of stairs and knock on the door, he reconsiders about fifteen times. And thinks about turning right around for the five seconds before his knock is answered. He doesn't know what he's doing.

The Iron Bull answers the door shirtless. "Hey, floor neighbour." he says, casually. "You need something?"

His throat tightens more. He's going to suffocate. His throat is swelling shut and he's going to suffocate and _die_. His legs are going to give way and collapse. He can't speak and on top of everything else that's happening, The Iron Bull will think he's some sort of lunatic who knocks on people's doors for no reason.

"I'm going to check your pulse." The Iron Bull says. "Is that okay?"

He manages a tiny nod. The Iron Bull takes his wrist gently. His hand is huge. Dorian can't stop staring at it.

"You haven't taken anything you shouldn't, have you?" The Iron Bull asks. Dorian shakes his head. "You might be having a panic attack. That ever happened before?" Another shake. "Do you want to come in? It'll pass, but it's easier if you aren't on your own."

He does. The Iron Bull fetches him a glass of water in a glass with a frothy-mouthed horse and the words GO OSTWICK STALLIONS printed on it in fading green. As his heartrate slows back to something approaching normal, he has the chance to look around. The apartment appears to be laid out much the same way as Dorian's, although there's more stuff in it. Dorian has the one rather lopsided couch his living room came with; Bull has a couch, a big armchair piled with a mix of cushions and stuffed animals, some weights and such piled in a corner, a small tv on a table with _doilies_ on it, what the actual fuck, and a surprisingly good stock of books in an overflowing bookshelf.

He even has a couple of Tevene authors-- in translation, naturally, and-- oh, the latest Frederic Serault book, one of Dorian's very guilty pleasures. Somewhere in the tangle of leaving behind everything he's ever known, he hasn't found the time to read it yet. Bull is watching him, but kind of keeping a respectful distance, which is funny, because it's his own apartment. "I haven't actually read the latest one," he says, fingers against the spine of the Serault book, when he feels able to make words again. It's far, far better than discussing what just happened.

The Iron Bull lights up. "You're a fan? No spoilers, I promise. Favourite dragon?"

"Hivernal, although I will admit a soft spot for the Frostback after the end of the fourth book. That last battle--"

"Oh man, I know. I cry like a baby every time I read it." The Bull grins, grabs the new book out of his shelf. "You should borrow this. I never have anybody to talk to about them and my friends are all assholes." Just then, there's the buzz of a phone. "Speaking of which-- sorry, give me a sec."

The Iron Bull's phone has a bright pink case and a matching charm in the shape of a dragon dangling off it. Dorian stares at the book on his lap. He got himself invited into the home of a porn star, someone he has had years of ridiculous fantasies bout and what do they talk about? The sort of terrible fiction Dorian usually denies having any knowledge of. In a room that's, well, fairly ordinary, other than the still-shirtless qunari in the middle of it.

Although, now he thinks of it, what did he expect?

He probably didn't expect. He's never really thought about The Iron Bull outside contexts that mostly involved beds.

"--go ahead and get started without me." The Iron Bull is saying. "Not sure." A pause. "Will do." Another pause. "Yeah, yeah. See ya, cream-puff."

Oh. "You've got plans?" Which probably didn't involve the lunatic from downstairs turning up at your door while you're getting ready to go out.

"Eh, Wings Wednesday at the Striped Mabari doesn't really count as 'plans'." The Iron Bull says. "Just a few people who get together for chicken parts and beer now and again."

"All the same." Dorian stands, pleased to see his legs actually still work. "You've been very kind but I should probably go back to my own place."

The Iron Bull watches him silently for a moment. "Is that what you want to do, or are you trying to be polite? Because honestly? I'm perfectly happy to hang out here, watch some crap TV and talk dragons for a while, if you're in the mood for company. Or if you feel like wings and beer, come on out for wings and beer. Wings Wednesday's not really, you know, an exclusive thing. It does get a bit rowdy, though, just to warn you."

Well, he's certainly not going to make The Iron Bull drop his other plans in order to babysit Dorian, something he's probably only offering to do because Dorian is pathetic and he feels sorry for him. But when he considers that the alternative is sitting alone in his apartment staring at that damn letter-- "Actually, 'rowdy' might be exactly what I need right now."

"All right. Let me grab a couple of things, and then we can stop by yours so you can grab a coat-- it's only a few blocks walk away, but wouldn't want you to freeze before you get to the third best wings in town."

"Third best?"

"Skinner got us banned from places one and two." The Iron Bull chuckles. "You'll understand when you meet her."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so apparently Ser Barris has a first name and it's Delrin, not HotStuff. the more you know!  
> Felix's new wheelchair is a DAGNATECH (TM), obviously.


	3. Chapter 3

The Iron Bull puts on a shirt to go with his jeans-- a terrible, terrible shirt with stripes the colour of mustard-- and a leather jacket. They head downstairs, and Dorian leaves Bull hovering at the threshold, sets the book down on his coffee table, grabs wallet and phone. He doesn't think he wants to take his good coat to a place that has 'Wings Wednesday', but the only other he has is a little thin. He grabs it anyway-- it's at least flattering-- and adds a cosy scarf, because he always feels better with something to snuggle in.

He doesn't look at or in the direction of the letter.

Luckily, there's not too much wind to chill him down, and The Iron Bull is actually a quite interesting conversation partner. Dorian spends half of the walk going into far too much detail about his research, and then apologising for being a bore.

"Nah, it's interesting. Never apologise for being enthusiastic about what you do, I always say."

He tucks his face down into his scarf, not entirely sure why he's embarrassed. "So-- you know first aid, then?"

"Comes in handy now and then. You know, if you ever wanted to learn mouth-to-mouth..." The Iron Bull closes his good eye, sort of _at_ him-- is that-- is he trying to _wink_?

He's not even-- ugh-- Dorian's really just not sure he can actually deal with his fantasies colliding with reality when reality is this much of a dork. Somebody else must write all the good lines for him. "I will have you know I am allergic to bad pickup lines."

"Sorry. Couldn't resist." Bull says. "Won't happen again."

A soft silence stretches between them, while Dorian frantically runs through phrasings that express _I am not **un** interested_ without implying _I am sad and desperate_. "I'm high maintenance, you see. I expect only the _best_ pickup lines."

"Would you like some champagne with that? Caviar? Peeled grapes?"

"I have to admit, I've never seen the appeal in champagne."

"It's the bubbles." Bull grins. "Plus, it comes in _pink_. Peeled grapes it is, then."

* * *

The 'Striped Mabari' is a fairly standard Ferelden sports bar, painted wooden mabari out the front, big sign advertising "WINGS WEDNESDAY", fried potato with everything, and about as stylish as the sack the potatoes came in.

Bull introduces him to a round of people, most of whom have names that aren't actually names, like "Rocky" (works in construction, prefers demolition) and "Dalish" (stares right at him and claims she knows ancient elven magic and he's not sure from the reactions of the rest if this is just an in-joke or she really means it). There's already a mix of plates scattered across the tables they've commandeered, and Bull nabs a half-eaten platter of wings and starts explaining to him all the different available flavours.

"Help yourself," he says, "We just kind of do a bunch of stuff to share. I'll grab a drink, what do you want?" Considering his wallet, Dorian just asks for a beer, figuring he can nurse it for a while. Bull disrupts this careful strategy by refusing to accept any of his money. "You don't invite a guy to Wings Wednesday and then make him pay for his own beer." he says, as if this is some sort of iron-clad rule, and then abandons him to his fate.

Which is to say, goes to get the drinks and lets his friends crowd around to question how he knows Bull. The guy at the far end who is eyeing him suspiciously looks Tevene, and his glare sharpens when he hears the name _Pavus_ , but nobody asks where Dorian is from, so he doesn't volunteer the information. He explains the apartment thing and manages not to ramble on too much about what he's doing at the university.

'Stitches', it turns out, is a nurse, actually works at the medical centre on campus, and knows Josephine and Sera ( _that's_ Josephine's girlfriend's name!), so when he mentions his department it turns into stories about her antics. "I've never actually met her," Dorian admits. "She just magically makes food appear. A lifesaver for poor grad students."

"Is that what you are?" the Tevene guy says. Krem, wasn't it? Can't be his real name.

Before Dorian can answer that, Bull returns, with a beer for Dorian, and a very large, very _pink_ cocktail for himself. "What," he says, glad for the distraction, "is _that_?"

"Happiness in a glass." Bull answers, tilting it towards him. "Want some?"

"No, but I think I might have figured out what your favourite colour is." Dorian retorts. At this point yet another group arrive, and with a call of _budge up, shits!_ , he finds himself squished up on the bench seat, with Bull a warm presence on one side and the relatively cordial Stitches on the other.

It does get rowdy. The new arrivals include the mysterious 'Skinner', who apparently works in a butchers, can joint a chicken in seventeen seconds, and whose appearance is a cue for half the table to break into a song about a hedgehog for reasons Dorian's not sure he wants to know. Bull makes a number of terrible 'wing' puns and pays for another round-- for the entire table, not just Dorian, which makes it easier to bear somehow, although he's mentally totting up the amount he owes. He's sure he can find an excuse to pay Bull back at some point.

It's easy just to let the noise wash past him. They're loud and crude and insistent on singing although most of the group can't hold a tune, but he doesn't miss the way they tease Skinner about her girlfriend, Krem about his, and in pretty much the exact same way. Beer gives way to shots-- he's not sure who pays for those, it's getting hard to keep track. Who cares, if it washes his father out of his head, replaces fear with the lovely buzz of just-a-bit-too-drunk-to-care. Stitches tells a couple of funny stories about his time working in the local emergency department, out of which it emerges that Bull used to work security there.

"Not anymore?" he asks. Not that he's trying to find out anything.

"Nah, porn pays better." Bull says. Like it's no big deal. Dorian blinks. Nobody else appears at all surprised. Does everyone here just-- know?

"And ironically," Stitches adds, "you probably get less exposure to the bodily fluids of random strangers."

"Yep. Safety first!" Bull calls, to general laughter.

Dorian is vaguely aware that he should probably make some sort of response to this instead of just gaping. "I think you might have broken him," one of Bull's friends says, leaning curiously over the table. "'Vints are all delicate about sex, you know."

"Oi." Krem says, "Don't lump me in with that one. _You got a problem with him, Altus?_ "

The Tevene, and in particular the form of address, breaks through his mental blank. Ah, now he gets the hostility. Fair enough. He directs his answer to Bull instead. "Sorry. You surprised me." True enough, except the surprise was at the openness, more than anything else.

Bull ruffles his hair, an act that Dorian would probably protest if he was more sober. "No offence taken. I've had worse reactions."

"Tell him about your fangirl." Skinner says, grinning, and when Bull shakes his head at her she launches into the story anyway, which starts off with Bull getting fanmail and escalates to Bull getting fanmail that is actually a replica in chocolate of somebody's breasts. "With fucking _glazed pecan nipples_!" she yells, getting several looks from other tables.

"And he wrote a very polite letter back." Stitches says. "Telling her he was very flattered but also allergic to pecans."

"I _am_ allergic to pecans." Bull says, and Dorian laughs until his belly hurts. "What? It's true." he adds, which doesn't actually go any way towards calming Dorian's hysterics.

* * *

The crowd starts to thin out as the night wears on, although Bull's friends do not seem inclined to call it an early night by any measure. Dorian stifles a yawn, trying to hide it behind his empty glass and Bull says, entirely transparently, "Should probably get back and get some actual sleep. Got to meet with Madame Viv in the morning and she's a stickler for punctuality. You want to head back together, big guy?"

He also throws some money on the table to go towards the food bill, refuses to let Dorian pay for anything, _again_ , and bundles him out the door to a chorus of rude comments about _sleep, sure_ , which Dorian refuses to get his hopes up over.

"I'm not _that_ skint." he complains, when they're out on the street. "I mean, thank you, but--"

"I like treating people." Bull says, simply. "Besides, I think you might need to save your money for a decent coat, have you actually been through a winter down here before?"

"I _have_ a decent coat." Dorian answers. Besides, the booze is helping. "I just didn't want to bring my nice things to somewhere called _the Striped Mabari_."

Bull shrugs. "If you need another, let me know. Dalish's sister works at this outlet store..."

"I don't need your _charity_." Dorian snaps, and then immediately regrets it. "I'm sorry. That was uncalled for."

Bull doesn't seem to take offence, though. "Krem says I fuss like a mother hen." he says, and then after a long pause during which Dorian runs over all the ways he's messing this up, adds, "You don't have to answer if you don't want, but what did he say to you? Never seen him take a dislike to someone he's just met before."

"It wasn't exactly unfounded. I'd be suspicious of me, too." Dorian sighs. "It's-- kind of hard to explain if you're not from Tevinter."

"Altus is one of those class things." Bull says, lightly, and smirks at him.

"Oh, modern Tevinter doesn't have class differences." Dorian says, "And if you believe that, I have a lovely tower in Minrathous I'd like to sell you. How to explain, hmm. When I was thirteen my parents packed me off to boarding school. I became very close friends with a boy my age, named Rilienus. We had-- shared interests."

Bull chuckles. "Are you about to tell me all the tales about boarding schools are _true_? Thought that was just a porn thing."

"Can I tell my story?" he says, mock-annoyed, and Bull does a funny little bow, _go ahead_. Also, there's absolutely no way he's telling _that_ boarding school story. "Anyway, it started off innocent enough, but as we got older, we started to sneak out of the dorms and try to get into bars, or clubs, or certain parties. There would be drinking, drugs, a veritable--" he waves his hand around.

"Cornucopia." Bull says, helpfully.

"Precisely. One of those. Made of things and activities that are highly illegal in Tevinter. And inevitably, one night, the place we were at was raided by the cops."

Bull tilts his head, curious. "And?"

"I had visions of getting arrested and expelled and my father finding out." Consequences in approximate ascending order of horror there. "They were searching everyone, I couldn't have passed a sobriety test if the test was lying down without holding onto something, Rilienus had half a pharmacy in his trousers-- and that cheeky _shit_ , they came to us and he just introduced himself like he was at a charity ball, demanded to speak to the officer in charge, and the next thing I knew we were getting a lift back to the dorm. I got a terrible hangover, and a week of detention for sneaking out, which Rilienus spent teasing me for actually thinking they'd arrest an Altus. Exact words something like _Are you joking? They can't touch us._ "

There'd actually been a _silly Riri_ in there, of course, but like hell he's letting that damn nickname spread any further. It's bad enough that he's apparently on overshare mode-- couldn't his brain at least come up with any of the _flattering_ stories?

"So Krem thinks you're probably some sort of spoiled brat who thinks he's above the law." Bull pauses. "I'm not seeing it, though. Because here you are, in Ferelden, in some shit apartment with little 'ol Bull for a ceiling neighbour."

Dorian winces, not just because the conversation is starting to touch on things he doesn't want to talk about. "That is not a thing, please stop reminding me that I babble when nervous."

"It could be a thing!" Bull looks all happy. "I like it, it's cute. That friend of yours sounds sort of awful, by the way."

"He has his moments." Dorian says, defensively. 

Yes, 'awful' is often exactly the right word for Rilienus, but he's remembering eight hours in a featureless room on the Ferelden border, growing more convinced by the minute that they wouldn't believe him and the next person to walk through the door will be someone his father sent to fetch him home. Instead, it's a lawyer. His lawyer, apparently. _I'm actually here at the request of a mutual friend with the sexual morals of a Rivaini monkey._

The first thing he does upon getting network access is to send a message to Felix to let him know he's safe. The second thing is to send Rilienus a simple _thank you_ , to which he gets a typically Rilienus response:

_don't gush riri it's embarrassing_  
_just hope your family don't find out_  
_your hot uncle might stop putting out_

Bull doesn't push him on the topic of Rilienus, and Dorian starts talking about Felix instead, an altogether safer subject. By the time they get back the conversation is flowing so nicely that when Bull invites him up he agrees without thinking. It ought to be familiar ground; have some drinks, find an excuse to go somewhere alone with an attractive man.

But it's not familiar ground. Firstly because _The Iron Bull_ , and secondly because they're neighbours, and thirdly because _The Iron Bull_ , and also because The Iron Bull is being sort of handsy but in a rather irritatingly platonic way, even though Dorian's fairly sure he's being unsubtle enough that if they were back in Tevinter he'd be up against a wall by now.

Instead, they're sitting on Bull's couch, talking. Which is, in itself, actually kind of great, except that it's mostly Dorian babbling about Tevinter things and he really can't go on, the chances of him saying something about his _appreciation_ of Bull's movies are too high. He doesn't want to be some sort of creepy fan. He doesn't want to be Pecan Nipple Woman.

"Enough." he says, pushing against Bull's side. Wow, he's really, _really_ just as solid as he looks. Dorian should probably stop touching him and say what he was going to say. "Your turn to say things. It's not fair if I'm the only one oversharing."

"Is that your way of requesting stories about making porn?" Bull says, grinning. "I do have a fairly _large_ body of work."

Dorian blinks. "No, and your jokes remain _awful_ , and that's not what I meant, and why are you all, so--" He waves a hand to encompass whatever the word is that he can't think of right now. _Shameless_ , maybe.

"I grew up under the Qun." Bull says, suddenly, and a chill goes down Dorian's spine. He'd assumed Bull was from Ferelden, maybe Orlais. There aren't many defectors these days, or so they say, and he's sure the stories you heard in Tevinter are very far from the truth, but all the same. "I've left a lot of it behind, but some stuff sticks. Under the Qun, sex is no big deal, if it's _just_ sex. What we're doing right now would be considered far more-- scandalous, I guess-- than anything I've done on camera."

"That doesn't make any sense." Dorian says. "We're not _doing_ anything."

"They call it _pairing off_ , and it's forbidden." Bull says. "Two people sneaking off together, that's sedition just waiting to happen. Nothing is supposed to come before the Qun."

He's heard some stories, but he's never known how much was propaganda. "What if you fall in love?"

" _Nothing_ is supposed to come before the Qun." Bull says, again. He looks a little melancholy.

Dorian wonders what it was-- who it was, perhaps-- that did. In the silence, his phone starts buzzing. The number and frequency of the messages says _Rilienus_ , without a doubt, and there's no way Rilienus will be texting him at this time of night with anything approaching sense, so he just digs it out of his pocket and sticks it on the table.

"You don't need to check that?" Bull says.

"It'll be Ril." Dorian tells him. "It's safe to ignore it. He'll get distracted by something else." The phone keeps buzzing. "Eventually." He almost wants to check it, because this many messages probably means what Rilienus has gotten into this time is _hilarious_ , but also he doesn't want to take the risk of Bull reading something incriminating over his shoulder. Sure enough, it stops. "See?"

There's an unreadable expression on Bull's face. Dorian decides he's sick of trying to second-guess things. Bull bought him drinks and took him home, and while the interlude for conversation has been very pleasant, there's only one way that ever ends. And given that his apartment is downstairs, at least the walk of shame will be more like a hop, skip and a jump.

He lays one hand on Bull's thigh, and Bull places his own hand over it, and then his other hand catches Dorian by the shoulder when he leans in for a kiss. "Just so you know," he says, softly, "sex went off the table for tonight around about the time you started letting Rocky pick out your drinks."

Dorian laughs, mostly in disbelief. "I'm hardly _incapable_." he informs Bull. "I assure you, I have had plenty of sex while _far_ drunker than this."

"I'm not calling you a liar." Bull says. The hand on his shoulder remains steady. "It's a personal rule. You must be _this_ sober to ride this ride, that sort of thing."

That's just-- _stupid_. "You make _no_ sense." He snatches his hand back; Bull doesn't stop him. "You took me out, bought me drinks, brought me back to yours--"

"All things I would do for any of my friends." Bull says. "Couch folds out. I think pretty much everyone you met tonight has probably slept on it after overindulging at least _once_. Or you can head back downstairs. Don't get me wrong, I do like you. Come back when you've sobered up and I promise to blow your mind, if that's still what you want. Or we can just talk dragons and go out for wings now and then. Your call."

_Friends_. Is that what they are? His face feels hot, embarrassment churning in his belly _drunk idiot, threw yourself at him and he said no_ , mixing with arousal at that promise, even though he's not sure if he'll be able to face Bull sober, let alone actually just-- what would be the protocol there? How does one go about propositioning a porn star when the liquid courage is taken out of the equation?

He's also not sure he can face traipsing down the stairs to a room that will feel so much colder than where he is now in ways that have nothing to do with the temperature. "I would like to borrow your couch, please." he says, eventually.

Bull folds it out and gets him a 'guest toothbrush', some travel thing with a hotel logo on it. The bathroom is relentlessly dragon-themed, down to the toilet seat. Dorian tries not to look too long at the bedroom. The door is shut, anyway. There's one of those 'humorous' signs on it saying WARNING: DREAD QUNARI, with horns coming out of the top of the Q, which somebody has annotated with sharpie so that it reads "DREADful QUNARI puns".

Dorian curls up on the fold-out couch with blankets piled on top of him, tucked in by Bull like a child, and squeezes his eyes closed tight with the hope that the world will make more sense in the morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tevinter is, of course, an entirely modern country.
> 
> The lack of class discrimination is enshrined in law, and all citizens are equal.  
> There is no slavery in Tevinter ~~pay no attention to the bonded employment system behind the curtain~~.  
>  To those in the south who claim the rich traditions of Tevinter are some way 'bigoted' or 'discriminatory', we say this:  
> /ad hominem, ad hominem, WHAT ABOUT ELVES IN FERELDEN THOUGH, ad hominem, also QUNARI, they're way worse than us


	4. Chapter 4

Bull wakes five minutes before his phone alarm goes off, every morning; he doesn't really need it, but, you know. Habit. This morning, he turns it off before it actually rings, in case Dorian is still asleep. There's one last message from Krem, from last night, the end of a discussion not quite an argument.

_when he gets sick of slumming it, you're the one who's going to get hurt_

He gets it, he does. If somebody from the Qun started sniffing around one of his friends, he'd be in there interfering in a second. But Bull's been trained to read people, can't really turn it off after all these years, and he thinks he's got Dorian reasonably well figured already.

He'd wondered if he might be a fan at first, the way he'd acted when they met, but after last night might amend that to 'attracted to me, bit repressed about it'. Obviously has a few assumptions about the way these things go that aren't surprising for Tevinter but are a little heartbreaking. Gorgeous, but also smart, and frankly Bull finds the latter the bigger turn on. Plus, clearly good taste in books. Yeah, he likes Dorian.

Enough that when he sneaks out to the kitchen to make breakfast without waking sleeping beauty (all mussed, aww), he eyes the phone on his coffee table, which is buzzing again, with a certain amount of ire. Same guy? Persistent. Not that it's any of his business if Dorian keeps in touch with an old school friend. A part of him acknowledges the emotion as somewhat out of character, though, the same way, for instance, talking about the Qun to a guy he's met all of twice would be out of character.

He sets down a cup of coffee on the table next to the couch and watches Dorian stir from sleep, presuming either woken by the smell or Bull clattering about in the kitchen. "You want milk or sugar or something?"

Dorian yawns and half-emerges from his cocoon of blankets to grasp the cup with both hands like a drowning man handed a rope. He really needs to be less cute. That would be helpful. "'m fine, thanks."

"You okay with scrambled eggs on toast? Doesn't take any more effort to make two servings rather than one." He's not a _little_ guy, but Bull knows most students don't eat properly, and Bull is a firm believer in proper breakfasts. Man cannot live on coffee alone. _Yes, Mother_ says the sarky little voice in the back of his head, the one that these days sounds a lot like Krem.

Dorian nods, mute and half-hiding behind his coffee cup. He also really ought to stop looking so confused when people offer to do things for him, like old-fashioned good hospitality is a foreign concept. It riles up all Bull's protective instincts. He thinks about that, while he's making the eggs. It actually explains a lot-- not about Dorian, but about his own reaction. That's all it is-- the poor guy sort of screams _I am in need of a hug_ and Bull never can resist a stray. Pleased by having found a tidy explanation for his own actions, he serves up and heads back out, where Dorian is still huddled in the blankets with his coffee.

"Thank you," Dorian says, still looking sleepy. And a little embarrassed. "And I'm sorry, about last night."

Yep, definitely the _needs a hug_ factor at play. "Don't be. Lots of people get a bit over-affectionate when drunk. Rocky still has a video of me trying to sing a lullaby to his cat-- seriously though, if he offers you his homebrew, just say no."

Dorian makes a noise like a sort of aborted giggle, like he's trying to suppress it. He eyes Bull's outfit. "You-- have a meeting?"

Probably the shirt that's confusing him. Ma'am has _opinions_ about Bull's clothes, and is about the only person who gets to. "Even porn stars have to sort out scheduling conflicts and talk about boring financial details now and then."

Dorian gives him a somewhat doubting look. "What, like the dildo budget?" 

"I do know a guy who lists sex toy purchases on his tax return under 'business expenses'." Bull says. Not a lie. Hawke's got balls the size of Seheron.

That gets a proper laugh, one that Dorian doesn't try to hide. "Does he get away with it?"

"They did audit him, the first time. He went in with a stack of DVDs as evidence that the items were for business and not personal use." Bull chuckles, imagining it. "Hasn't been questioned since."

There's a little quiet, then, while Dorian works through his breakfast. "The eggs are good."

"I only get 'good'?" Bull frowns at him. "I don't rate an 'egg-celent'?"

Dorian laughs again, and flicks a bit of toast crust at him as punishment for the pun, embarrassment temporarily forgotten. Mission accomplished.

Unfortunately, he can't linger. Ma'am really is a stickler for punctuality. "Don't worry about the couch," he says. "I'll fix it up when I get home, won't take a sec. I really do have to go, but take your time-- just pull the door to when you leave."

He leans forward and ruffles Dorian's hair-- hey, it's already messy-- which gets him a bit of a squawk. "I'll clean up." Dorian says, firmly. "You've already done enough."

Well, no harm in letting him do something. "Usual stuff's under the sink." Bull tells him. "Would you mind giving me your number?"

Dorian rattles it off, and Bull texts him right away with 'hi there, floor neighbour' so he at least has Bull's number if he needs anything.

"Call any time," he says. "I mean it."

Dorian nods, in a way that probably means he's the sort who won't, who doesn't want to be a bother.

_Be a bother_ , Bull wants to tell him. He says "See you around, then." instead.

* * *

Madame de Fer is a professional name, of course; Bull doesn't actually know if 'Vivienne' is even her real first name.

He marks the time precisely and knocks on her office door on the dot, not earlier, not later. Waits to be called in. Takes his usual seat. Waits for her to speak.

Ma'am gives him orders, but more than that, _order_. He doesn't need it as much or as often as when he was first out of the Qun and floundering for a purpose, but there's still a comfort in her presence.

"Revised schedule. I've taken care to ensure no clashes with your physio appointments which you are _not to skip_." Ma'am says, sliding it over. He takes it with both hands, carefully. "I have taken the liberty of refusing a few offers of the usual type." Her lips tighten. "Mass-market filth. You're better than _that_ , my dear."

"Thank you, Ma'am." he says.

"Also-- and please control yourself, I just had the carpet steam-cleaned-- this was sent through." She puts a box on the desk. "They'd like you to 'review' it."

Bull's eyes widen at the sight of the toy-- it's so _pretty_ , and-- are those _wings_? Like-- "I love you."

"I sincerely hope you're speaking to the dragon themed dildo, and not to me." Ma'am says. "And you are welcome. Also, I hear you've picked up another stray."

Dammit, can't Grim ever keep his mouth shut? "Not one that would be-- relevant to the business."

"Just don't catch any sort of Tevinter pox." Ma'am says, and points at the dildo. "Now take that terrible thing out of my office."

"Yes, Ma'am."

* * *

He has scenes with Isabela in the afternoon, which normally means messing around in their breaks, pranking people or coming up with more ideas for the epic pirate epic that Ma'am will _never_ let them film, more's the pity.

Today, however, she is preoccupied with her phone, probably texting or sexting her girlfriend, which leaves Bull with nothing to do but lounge around naked (not like anybody about here hasn't seen all this already), and let his mind drift.

It keeps drifting to Dorian. To what he might fancy a bit of. Even if Dorian never takes him up on it, Bull does enjoy the figuring-it-out stage. Most people who come to Bull in a non-professional setting are interested, in some extent, to his size and what he can do with it. They want him to play a part, fit into some role. With someone like Isabela, it's easy; she knows what she wants, she's not shy about telling the world.

Dorian, on the other hand, didn't really start flirting with him until after he'd switched from beer to drinks with comedy names, and he got handsy and sort of cuddly, sly words, indirect. Says he's not used to being direct, maybe. Says start easy, slow and gentle, give him room to back out or ask for more. Hopefully the latter. Bull's pretty sure that _incoherent with pleasure_ would be a fucking fantastic look on him.

"You're _distracted_." Isabela says, sliding gracefully into her chair. "What are you thinking about? Is it _filthy_? Oooh, is it about your new neighbour? What's the story there?"

Dammit, Grim. "Why do you presume there's a _story_?"

"Come on, now. You go for people with shitty backstories like they're pokemon." Isabela waves one hand vaguely. "It's like your penis is a dowsing rod for tragedy."

"Guy just needs a friend." Bull says.

Isabela leans over and wraps a friendly hand around his cock. "Mmhmm. I've met your friend. I believe we're due a re-introduction once they've fixed camera three."

He laughs. "One-track mind."

"I have multiple tracks!" Isabela says. "Track one: hot sex I am going to have with you on camera, in a few minutes. Track two: hot sex I am going to have with Merrill in order to christen the new couch, when I get home. Track three-- well, you get the drill."

"Is that what you're naming your new strap-on?" Bull asks, and she laughs and, in the ensuing discussion about pervertable power tools, forgets to question him on Dorian any further.


	5. Chapter 5

When Bull is gone, Dorian picks up his phone, rolls his eyes at 'floor neighbour' but carefully stores Bull's phone number under 'ceiling neighbour' anyway. Then he uses the camera to check his hair.

_Dammit_. So much for any remaining hope of appearing suave and under control around Bull.

No, not thinking about that. Not thinking about _anything_ to do with yesterday. He should probably see what it is that had Rilienus spamming him. It likely involves twins or something.

There are a _lot_ of messages. Dorian scrolls through the first few.

_okay lala's going to be mad_  
_because not supposed to tell anybody yet_  
_IM GOING TO HAVE A BABY_  
_not actually me_  
_i mean lala, obvs_

What. Is he serious? There's a bunch more, a mix of _ARE YOU DEAD OR JUST STILL MAD AT ME_ and _i don't know if its a boy or a girl yet so im just going to buy two lots of stuff_ and _lala says my opinions on baby names are invalid, sadface_

He flicks to the end, which is just Rilienus announcing he's gone to sleep and then announcing he's woken up again _RIRI TALK TO ME_.

Dorian thinks about what on earth he's going to say. It ends up as _Some of us were asleep at a decent hour last night. Also, when did this happen?_

_ASLEEP? IN WHOSE BED?_  
_also its been sort of planned for a while_  
_it's weird, right?_

He decides to ignore the first question. _Unexpected, given your opinions on... consummation_

_RIRI, NO_  
_if the maker wanted me to have sex with my wife_  
_he wouldn't have invented expensive fertility clinics_

Oh. Really, really not detail that Dorian needed to know. Ever. _Okay, now it's a little weird. Congratulations, though?_

_thx!_  
_also you didn't answer my question_

Dorian pauses. He's not sure on this one. But who else is he going to tell? _I might have sort of got drunk last night and slept on Bull's couch_

_before or after you rode that like a cowboy?_  
_or.. shit, riri. RIRI. NO._  
_do not do your attachment thing_

_We're neighbours_ , Dorian responds. _It's not a bad idea to be friendly with your neighbours_

_IT IS A TERRIBLE IDEA_  
_i speak in my official position here_  
_as divine of the chantry of poor life decisions_  
_you will get all gooshy_  
_he fucks people in a professional capacity_  
_which i personally admire but see above re: riri gets gooshy_  
_you will get hurt_  
_i will have to figure out how to hire assassins in ferelden_  
_it'll all end in tears_

Dorian shakes his head, even though Rilienus can't see him. _I have to go_ he types, and then determinedly ignores the phone.

* * *

He tidies up at Bull's as best he can, resisting the temptation to poke around in the cupboards, and heads back down to his own apartment. It's already later than it should be, so he quickly showers and changes and shoves the letter from his father and the associated contents in the drawer that sticks, the one he never uses, so he doesn't have to look at it. He considers for a moment talking to someone about it, but he can't see exactly what he'd say, or who to. His father wrote to say he's worried about Dorian and to offer him financial support. _That monster_ he thinks, and laughs at himself.

No, this isn't a thing he can do much about. Felix would tell Gereon, who would tell Mae, and really, he's asked far too much of all of them already. Rilienus would almost certainly attempt to help in some sort of grandiose way, and-- no. Terrible idea all around.

It's just a head game, anyway. His father's not going to risk kidnapping him cross-border.

Probably.

He goes to the university, instead, and spends the remainder of his morning judging the handwriting of a guy who has been dead several hundred years, which is very relaxing as it involves no requirement to discuss his life choices with people who really don't have a leg to stand on.

Professor Flemeth, his brilliant yet deeply scary supervisor, sends him a email before lunch which demands a large number of things of him in a way that reminds him of Alexius. She expects a lot, but they're all things he doesn't mind being expected of him. Excelling academically has never been an issue for Dorian; in fact, it might be one of the few things his father ever wanted of him that he didn't mind giving. There's no lie in it; there's nothing to hide.

So he's late to get lunch, but feeling good about it by the time he emerges into the sunlight, bright and yet _still_ cold, he really hates the weather here but he needs some fresh air to go with his slightly stale sandwiches. It startles him to spot Delrin Barris walking across campus, looking just as handsome in casual clothing as he'd been in the uniform, and before he can stop himself he hurries to match Delrin's stride. "Hey." No points for originality.

There's no _why didn't you call?_ Delrin just turns, and smiles broadly. "Dorian, hey! Good to see you-- you know, when they're not making me wear an apron and a stupid hat."

"I thought you managed to pull it off." Not entirely, but the fact that the uniform had been tight around the shoulders had certainly helped.

Delrin laughs. "You're sweet. Lying, but sweet. Nobody looks good in the hat. Late lunch?"

"Got sidetracked. Yourself?"

"Heading to the chantry." Delrin says, and then, obviously reading something out of Dorian's expression, grins. "I know that look. Yes, I'm campus chantry, choir boy and all that. No, I'm not trying to get you alone so I can ask if you've accepted Andraste into your life."

The opening is irresistible. "But you admit you're trying to get me alone." Dorian says, shifting slightly more into Delrin's personal space. He's used to a version of this which plays out in the dark, not in the middle of campus, but surely the rules are more or less the same. The events of last night threw him a little, but that was just a miscalculation. The basic rules will hold with Delrin. They'll go for a drink, perhaps, and then for something that's not a drink, and if Delrin touches him the way he keeps looking Dorian imagines it will all be very pleasant.

He doesn't expect the statement to visibly fluster the man. "I was thinking maybe dinner? I kind of prefer to take things slow."

Define _slow_. "You're asking me out on a date." He says it aloud, just to hear the words. Just to confirm. "Like a proper date."

"Unless things go horribly awry, I was hoping for more than one." Delrin looks confused, if anything. "Is that a yes?"

This the sort of thing he's been hoping for, right? Why does the thought now feel somewhat terrifying? "Yes."

Delrin smiles broadly. "How's this Saturday for you? I have a place in mind-- dwarven fusion, better than it sounds, I promise."

Well, given that Dorian hasn't managed to establish an actual social life in Ferelden yet-- "That works."

"Text me and we'll figure out a time and place to meet. It's in the centre but sort of down a back street, so it's easier to meet up by the station or something first." Delrin glances down at his watch. "And now I do have to go or I genuinely will be late for choir practice."

Dorian watches him go, feeling oddly perplexed. What is it with Ferelden and handsome men not wanting to sleep with him?

This is probably not a Rilienus discussion. He sits on a bench with his sandwiches, in what afternoon sunlight there is, and considers texting Felix, although he imagines his advice will mostly consist of _just be yourself_ and really if that was all it took he wouldn't be worrying about it. Or he could get back in touch with Mae-- he has her number memorised-- but he knows where that leads and she'll never just leave it at romantic advice. If he texts she will call and then within five minutes he'll have confessed everything-- Delrin, Bull, what his father's up to-- and he loves Mae, he does, but he's supposed to be a grown up now. He's not the kid who used to climb in her windows at 3am when he had nowhere else to hide. He can't keep letting her just fix his life. 

Dinner. He's gone out to dinner before. He's even gone out to dinner with somebody he's interested in, before, if you count Rilienus, if you count Rilienus with public face on, very careful not to touch him, smiling at some friend of his father's the next table over, oh yes, we were at Vyrantium together, you know the Pavuses, surely?

He snorts. Not really a date, that, even if there was sex afterwards. Wings at the Striped Mabari with Bull was closer to--

_No_ he tells his brain. _I'm not thinking about it_. Dinner. He can do dinner, and then he'll just let Delrin set the pace, and try to stop throwing himself at people at apparently inappropriate moments until he figures out what the appropriate ones are. It's not a big deal, so he should stop feeling anxious about it.

Telling himself that is one thing. Actually making his stupid brain behave is another. He texts Delrin when he gets back to his desk, and gets a series of texts in return explaining where exactly the restaurant is and where they should meet up and checking if he's allergic to anything or vegan and if he's okay with spicy food (no, no, absolutely yes).

Another point in Delrin Barris' favor: he can actually write a grammatically correct text message.

Despite the background anxiety around his utter lack of proper dating experience, he enjoys his afternoon, letting himself occasionally distracted by the thought _I have a date_ and also the fact that if anybody asks him what he's doing this weekend, he can say _I have a date_ , and maybe even be brave enough to say who with.

Other pertinent recent events don't make themselves known until he's on the doorstep of his building, at which point they all come crashing int his brain at once. He can see the mailboxes from here.

_Not looking won't make it go away_ he reminds himself, steeling himself to check for another letter, but there's nothing in there, just a couple more slips of junk-mail. _Maybe he'll give up_. He heats up his sad, sad prepackaged dinner and reminds himself that he really needs to learn how to actually cook. There's probably lessons on campus somewhere, surely Dorian isn't the only student to turn up lacking in certain skills.

The Serault book he borrowed from Bull is still on the table. He reads a couple of chapters over dinner-- he ought to finish it up as soon as he can and return it, really. Or should he get in touch sooner? Just to say thank you again-- not to mention _sorry for being a lush_. The fact that Bull was kind about it really doesn't make his actions any less embarrassing.

_Or,_ his traitorous brain suggests, _you could see if there's any way you could make it up to him._

That's really, really not going to solve anything, but he finds himself staring at Bull's number anyway.

It couldn't make things _worse_ , right?

Bull greets him with a cheery "Hey, neighbour!" Behind that, and rather more muffled, _Shit, Grim, where did you find that? Put it on top. No, higher. Use the duct tape if you have to._

"Hi." he says back, fidgeting. "I-- uh-- did I get you at a bad time?"

"Nah, just hanging out at a friend's place. She conned Grim and I into helping move furniture by promising us dinner, but then she got distracted when her girlfriend came home early so we've having to make our own fun. Why, you need something? I can be back in maybe ten minutes, if it's urgent."

There is definitely no way Dorian's going to categorise what he was thinking about maybe asking for as _urgent_ , so he picks the first related topic that comes to mind "No, just wanted to say thanks again, and to tell you I got started on the book."

"Yeah?" Dorian swears he can hear Bull's grin behind the word. "How far did you get-- no, don't tell me, I'll be too tempted to give you spoilers, but oh man, it's _great_ , isn't it? Hey, if you could be any character in the series, who would you be?"

There's an obvious answer, but he pauses as if thinking about it. "Probably Etienne."

"Smart, good looking." Bull says, immediately. "That fits."

"I was thinking more that I would quite like to be able to set people on fire with my mind." Dorian says. Not that he's naming any names. "You?"

"Definitely Claudine."

"You would be the mom." Dorian says, mildly confused. There are a good half a dozen sword-swinging warriors Bull could have picked instead.

"She kicks ass." Bull says, as if it's obvious. "I would be the kick-ass mom."

"You are _ridiculous_." Dorian informs him, and laughs, settling back into his couch. "But points for originality."

There is a muffled crash from the other end of the phone. "Shiiit." Bull says, a long exhale, and then, "Sorry, probably should go. Grim's gotten himself in a bit of a pickle. Literally, his foot just went right through a jar of Merrill's homemade pickle. Hey, the guys are coming over to mine Saturday for pizza and beer if you're around."

Dorian blinks. "I'm busy. I mean. I have a date." Natural. Act natural.

"Good on you!" Bull says, without an ounce of sarcasm. Like he means it. "Have fun, then. Might try to pawn off some leftovers on you Sunday, I always end up making too much."

"Sure." Dorian hears himself say. "See you around."

He hangs up, and stares at the phone. Why does every conversation he has with Bull end up going off at a complete tangent from whatever it was he'd intended?

Maybe it's better, though. It's like Rilienus is always saying. Dorian has a terrible habit of wanting things he can't have, and the closer he gets the more he wants. He needs to draw the line now, and be more careful about not crossing it. Talk about dragons, yes. Drunkenly propositioning the man, no.

That ought to be doable, surely?

He writes a quick message to Rilienus. _I think you're right._

_I AM?_  
_i mean, obvs_  
_what about?_

Picking words carefully, half to convince himself. _Getting too close to Bull. It's a bad idea._

_oh that_  
_you know how you get, Riri_  
_I'm just trying to protect you_

_I know_ he writes. _Now, less I-told-you-so and more helping me figure out what people in Ferelden wear to dates_

There is an unusual pause.

_you have a date?_

_A guy on campus asked me to dinner_ Dorian says, smiling at being able to share all the sweet details. _He's an engineering student and he's taking me out to some dwarven fusion place on Saturday. He seems really nice. I think maybe this could be something_

Another un-Rilienus like pause.

_you never said anything about this before_  
_since when do you keep things from me_

What? _I literally met him yesterday and have spoken to him twice, I didn't have time to keep anything from you. Why are you being so weird?_

_you know why_

How does Rilienus manage to make three words on a screen look petulant? Also, no, Dorian really doesn't know why. Dorian's not the one who got married. _Don't you have things you could be doing with your pregnant wife?_ he responds, and immediately regrets it. He knows what it's like in Tevinter. _Ril, I'm sorry_

Rilienus doesn't respond, even after he leaves the phone and cleans up after dinner. Or after he reads a couple more chapters of the book, this time in bed because the blankets make it the warmest part of his apartment. Well, let him sulk.

He stares at the ceiling a moment, wondering if Bull's home yet. He can't hear anything. The building is fairly solid, granted. He usually doesn't make out more than a few muffled thumps. Of course, Bull could be home, just over in his kitchen or something. The apartment layouts are pretty much identical, so what's right over Dorian's head is Bull's bedroom.

He really can't be thinking about this. He can see the course of it already-- there's no way Bull would want anything from him more than a casual fling, and Dorian can't, he just can't. He can play the friend, laugh off what happened before, _oh, how drunk was I?_ , and nod at Bull when they pass in the corridors, and pretend he doesn't know what that voice sounds like saying things like _take your time, gorgeous, we've got all night_.

His voice sounds a little different in real life. Not a bad different. And he's kinder than Dorian would have expected, and definitely far more ridiculous, and makes good scrambled eggs and has dubious taste in shirts and good taste in terrible books, and Dorian really could--

And really _can't_.


	6. Chapter 6

Five minutes before his alarm, and Bull wakes. The ceiling has that peculiar textured surface he's never seen outside Ferelden; it's ugly, but it helps him remember. The air is cold, he can hear the neighbour with the tiny dog through the wall to his left, and this is not Seheron.

That established, he takes a few deep breaths and gives himself time to categorise the surrounding noises - nothing out of the ordinary - before the alarm does go off.

It's not that he thinks anybody is coming for him. After all this time? Hissrad is a piece of forgotten history, another thing written off and not talked about.

It's just habit.

Like showering, swift and efficient-- lingering is for when he has company-- not bothering to dress before he gets his coffee on. It is quarter past by the time he has breakfast ready-- Friday, so oatmeal, easy on the honey, plenty of cinnamon-- and he doesn't rush the eating. Somewhere at the back of his head, Tama always reminds him that it's not good for digestion, eating too fast.

They always had oatmeal on Fridays. The honey is different. Probably something to do with the type of flowers, nothing he can really explain properly. And it's never quite right. Not like she made it.

Email. From Bastien, chess (Interesting move. He'll have to think about it.) From Krem, about pizza night (Yes, byo, no, Rocky's homebrew not included). From Nug Of The Day, cute little Kirkwall Spotted perching on the head of a mabari. (Aww.)

Also, that reminds him he needs to check if Red still needs help with her film thing next week. Three rings before she picks up.

She doesn't bother with preamble. “Yes, but only for setup on Tuesday and clearup on Thursday. I found a pretty grad student to cover concessions on Wednesday night. You're still sure you don't want payment? There's cash in the budget.”

He laughs. “What, and make my accountant's life more difficult? Nah, I'll come for the double-bill on Thursday, throw in some free popcorn with my tickets and I'll be fine.”

“She's Madame de Fer's accountant, and I'm sure she's more than capable of handling it.” Red retorts. “Caramel popcorn?”

“There are _other types_?”

* * *

Rilienus doesn't respond the entirety of Friday, nor the next morning, and Dorian _refuses_ to be the one to break first, on principle, and it's a good principle, and he's standing by it, but this does leave him with nobody to talk date outfits with.

There's Felix, of course, but his advice stops at _You always look good in clothes. Just wear whatever._

_I need something a little more specific_ he replies, staring balefully at his closet, which refuses to spit out the perfect outfit on command. He's tempted to go shopping-- unwise, given the current state of his bank account, but so very, very tempted.

How do people _live_ like this? He swears he's cut everything down to the absolute essentials and he's still skating on the edge of bankruptcy. The woman at the financial office _assured_ him that the graduate stipend was 'generous', but he's starting to understand that means something else entirely, south of the border.

_You're fighting with Rilienus again?_ Felix asks, since he knows why Dorian would be reduced to asking him for fashion advice. _Remind me why you're still friends with him?_ Felix and Rilienus have never gotten along.

_Because he has better fashion advice than 'wear clothes'_ he replies, rather than delving into that argument again.

Felix sends a complex emoticon than might be a shrug, or perhaps a sigh _Stop avoiding Mae, then._

It's not that he's been avoiding her. The outcome of _The Incident_ had been bad enough, what might his father do if he even _suspected_ Mae was involved in his flight over the border--

_You'll thank me._ says Felix's last message, and then his phone rings. One look at the number, and he knows better than to not pick it up.

“Dorian.” Mae says, sharply, the moment he answers. “I promise you, I have been threatened by a better class of bastard than Halward Pavus, and I can look after myself. Now tell me all about this boy and what exactly you're going to _wear_.”

* * *

Several hours later, Mae has talked him out of his incipient fashion panic and into the skinny jeans he'd been planning to wear all along. A _date_. The thought alone makes him smile, even if he does have to take the bus into the centre of town to get there.

Delrin is already waiting at their appointed meeting spot, and greets him with a smile and a proffered arm, and they stroll along to the restaurant like that, making small talk. Dorian is fairly sure he saw this very scene in a tacky romantic film last week.

The restaurant is down a side street, and down some stairs from a very dubious looking door with only the word _Salroka_ carved over the top of it, but even as they descend he can smell the spices, a mix of foreign and familiar, and really, he'd put up with a lot for food you can actually taste.

At the bottom it opens out, warmly lit, low ceilings, little tables in little nooks, a mix of couples and larger groups of students. Not one of them takes a second look at their table; the waitress is only interested in whether or not they want to order yet.

Dorian decides he is not feeling adventurous enough for whatever _pickled Nug's feet_ are, but at a suggestion from Delrin they order the mixed platter to start with, and then he has the waitress talk him through the spice levels of the rest, until he's certain he has picked the cream of the crop. Metaphorically; dwarven cuisine doesn't seem to rely much upon dairy products.

It's funny, because there's plenty of dwarves in Tevinter, but he can't actually remember seeing a dwarven restaurant in Minrathous. There must be some. Mae would know. Perhaps just not in the areas of Minrathous a Pavus would normally go to eat, which tend to contain mostly the sort of fashionable modern cuisine Rilienus adores – gravity-defying plating and a wine list longer than the Archon's beard.

“Tell me about your research,” Delrin says, as they wait for their food to come out. “I don't know much history other than what I get from Tales of Thedas.”

Oh, that's _tragic_. “That show is narrated by an _author of fiction_.” Dorian points out. “That should be your first clue.”

This is how, by the time the waitress brings the starter platter out, she arrives just in time to hear him say “Blood sacrifice was _never_ an official part of Tevinter chantry ritual.”, although he supposes if _that's_ the only reason anybody looks at him funny tonight, then fair enough.

The platter contains a mix of various pate-like dishes, a pile of multicoloured things Delrin says are Mystery Pickles and assures him nobody actually eats, and two kinds of bread, one rather solid, the other an airy thing that reminds him of the sort their Rivaini cook used to make when his parents were both out and Dorian snuck into the kitchen to eat with the servants-- back when, innocently, the main reason he liked it was that he got to eat with his hands.

This reminds him a bit of that-- sharing a platter between them, Delrin tearing the bread with his hands, the sweet, peppery seasoning on the dish they decide is 'probably mushroom', the hot-and-sour 'almost certainly chicken'. Before Dorian realises it, they've polished off the whole thing.

Well, nearly the whole thing. There's still the Pickled Items of Mystery, which Delrin seems unwilling to risk. Well, more for Dorian. He's fairly sure none of it is the mysterious nug feet. "Does the team take a lot of your time?” Dorian isn't normally that interested in rugby, but he's sure he could feign appropriate interest if he was dating a rugby player.

"Training four times a week, and we have a daily six-am run, anyone welcome." Delrin says, and Dorian can't stop a flinch. "No?"

"There is no way I am letting you see what I look like when dragged out of bed at six am." Dorian informs him, picking at whatever the red one is-- lovely little kick to it, certainly-- "I am a work of art, Delrin, and you should never see a work of art in _progress_. It spoils the mystique."

Delrin laughs. "That's sausages, isn't it?"

"Pardon?"

"My grandmother used to say you should never watch sausages being made." Delrin says. "For pretty much the same reasons."

He's... just going to let that one by. "Either way, I will pass. I would sell an organ to find a decent yoga studio, though." Among the little luxuries he misses from Minrathous-- the studio in question had been very exclusive, ludicrously expensive, and featured a lithe and delightful yoga teacher whose invitations to 'private tuition' Dorian had genuinely considered accepting until he'd learnt that Rilienus had gotten there first.

"Oh, is that popular in Tevinter?"

Is it-- "We pretty much _invented_ yoga, I'll have you know."

"Thought that was elves."

That's ridiculo-- _possible_ , probably. "Well, I'm sure we improved upon it." He's thankful when their mains arrive, despite the dubiousness of the presentation. Spices. Real spices. Praise be.

It's all very, very good. And Delrin is sweet, and each time he looks across the table, yes, still hot. If this were Tevinter, they'd have tumbled and said their goodbyes already, no doubt about it. Dorian wouldn't have said no to arms like those, and wouldn't have regretted saying yes.

So why does he feel as if something is missing?

* * *

They skip dessert, which apparently is not something dwarven restaurants are known for, in favour of dark, thick coffee and the sticky wrapped toffees that arrive with the bill. Dorian insists on paying for half, and Delrin agrees easily.

He wouldn't mind moving onto a bar, or perhaps a club, but Delrin is an 'early to bed, early to rise' type, it seems. They walk back towards the bus-stop, instead, where it turns out that they get the same bus, only in different directions. Delrin kisses him good-night, soft and chaste, and it's-- it's like one of those old films, that's what it is. He's being courted, and it's at once adorable and also mildly ridiculous.

“I have free tickets for the university film festival.” he says, because he feels he ought to make an effort to arrange the next date, and also, free. “Not Wednesday, because I'll have to spend half of it working, but Tuesday or Thursday would work, if you're interested.”

“Thursday, then.” Delrin says firmly. “I have choir on Tuesday nights.”

Between the team and his Chantry work, Dorian wonders if Delrin gets any time off to just hang about and admire his own magnificent biceps occasionally. Still, Thursday works. “It's a double-bill. Some Orlais thing, and then you'll get to watch the Tevinter classic, _Magister Argentis_ , and then have me explain it to you.”

Delrin smiles. “It's a date.”

Apparently so. Dorian flounders for the appropriate reaction at this point, because he's not sure he's having it, but at that point Delrin's bus arrives, saving him the trouble.

* * *

_Date went well._ he sends, when he gets home, to Felix and Mae, and after a moment's thought, to Rilienus as well, in case he's done with the silent treatment.

Felix responds quickly, with a simple smiley face.

Rilienus has never done simple.

_did the time zone change?_  
_or did he take you out for afternoon tea_  
_because if you're home this early something's up_  
_he is obviously not showering you with the gifts and sex you deserve_  
_yet another reason you should come see me in v.r._

Subtle. Dorian is spared having to think up a response, as Mae calls him at that point. “Yes, I'm home safe.”

“Orchid, I'm not your mother.” Mae says. “I'm calling to find out if you got laid.”

His friends are all so very subtle. “No, he has some Ferelden chantry thing about courtship and romance coming first, it's actually very refreshing.” Well, a little bit frustrating, but it's not going to kill him. “Rilienus is already nagging me about it, don't you start too.”

“If you ever compare me to that gadfly again, I will find you and shave your moustache off.” Mae says, half-serious; honestly, why Rilienus can't get along with any of his other friends, Dorian doesn't know. “Courtship and romance, hmm? He sounds sweet.”

Sweet. Yes. “He is.” Dorian says, and then pauses, considering. “If I ask you how you can tell when you're in love, will you say something unhelpful like _you'll know when it happens to you?_.”

“You expected perhaps an app for that?” Mae quips; he can _hear_ her smiling fondly at him down the phone. “My sweet little not-brother, _you'll know when it happens to you_.”

“You're terrible.” Dorian informs her. “Simply terrible. Rubbish.”

There's a very long pause at the other end of the line. “I trusted him.” Mae says.

“Huh?”

“Thorold. Within five minutes of meeting him, I trusted him. I felt like I could tell him absolutely anything.” She sighs, and for a moment Dorian's not sure if his heart aches for what she's lost, or the fact that he's never had it. “That's how I knew.”

He considers this for a moment. “I guess 'I looked at his arms and thought _yes, please_ ' isn't really going to cut it, then.”

Mae laughs. Almost at the same time, there's a faint echo of laughter upstairs. He guesses Bull's friends are still over for pizza and beer. _I felt like I could tell him absolutely anything_ , Dorian thinks, and freezes.

No. Absolutely _not_. “Let me tell you about the restaurant.” he says, instead, and forces himself to concentrate on those details, rather than irrelevant minutiae. He'll know when it happens, Mae said, which also means that he can decide when he is most definitely not even the tiniest bit in actual love with The Iron Bull.


	7. Chapter 7

It's a tight fit, to get everyone in Bull's living room and leave room for the pizza, too. They manage mostly because of the general lack of care of all his friends for personal space. People take it in turns to help out in the kitchen, make sure there's enough beer to go around, and attempt to play ring toss with Bull's horns as the target.

Well, the last is mostly Krem and Stitches. “Altus not joining us?” Krem says, suspicious.

“He's got a date.” Bull says. “Also, a name.”

“Yeah, and _Pavus_ is an Altus brat who complains about having no money while wearing brand-name distressed jeans.” Krem responds. “He means, daddy cut his allowance a bit short this month. Do you know how many friends back in Tevinter I've seen screwed over because someone like that thought they were above the law-- and turned out to be right?”

“Well, he's not in Tevinter now, is he?” Bull says. He knows where this is coming from; Krem says 'friends' but he's thinking about his father, almost certainly. “Give him a chance to prove himself, one way or another, at least. And don't worry so much. I'm a tough guy, I'm not that easily hurt.”

Krem shakes his head. “You're a giant softy, but all right, he can have a chance. He does one single thing to harm your soft marshmallow centre, though, and I'm coming down on him like a ton of bricks.”

“Never trust a posh shem.” Skinner adds in apparent agreement, leaning over to grab a handful of breadsticks. “That's a _fact_.

“Less grouching, more pizza.” Grim slides over half a pizza with a commiserating look, and Bull laughs, because he knows that look. “And don't you even _get_ started, I've heard quite enough from you already.”

He does get it, that they're trying to protect him, and it's sweet, really, if unnecessary. Both because Bull doesn't need protecting, and because, well, it seems Dorian might not need much of anything from him at all, in the end.

Tide goes out. Tide comes in. Such is life. Bull doesn't go where he's not required.

Which isn't to say that he won't take Dorian some leftover pizza tomorrow morning, because even if nothing else is required of him, who says no to pizza?

* * *

Dorian wakes up Sunday morning, and immediately regrets it. Not because his relatively tame date the previous night has left him with a hangover, but because the heating in his bedroom is only working at half-capacity again. He's probably meant to do something to the radiator, he remembers somebody mentioning that.

He cranes his neck a moment to look at the radiator, which unfortunately doesn't make it grow a button that says 'press here to make me work again', and then decides on a much more reasonable plan of action, which is to reach for his phone, which doesn't require him to actually leave the relative warmth of his bed.

There are messages from Rilienus, but Dorian really doesn't feel up to dealing with him this morning. Granted, the whole 'proper courtship' thing had sort of thrown him for a loop, but it's not a _bad_ thing, just new.

And if he'd wanted a quick fuck and nothing more, _that_ he could have had back in Tevinter.

Sometimes he just wants to reach through the phone and shake some sense into Rilienus. At this point in time surely he understands, that Dorian didn't leave Tevinter out of some intense desire to experience frostbite for himself. That if Dorian would be happy with what Rilienus has-- the grand office in his father's building, the lovely wife, and the complex web of lies-- he would never have pushed his father as far as he did in the first place.

There's a knock at the door. Grumbling, he pulls himself out of bed, wraps the warmest thing in arm's reach around himself, and stumbles vaguely in that direction. He makes it most of the way before he remembers that this means that he is now wearing a fluffy grey dressing gown over his pyjamas and also slippers in the shape of rabbits. Things that should never be seen in public even separately, let alone in combination, but are also possibly the warmest items of clothing he has ever owned in his life. This is saying something, given that he once let Rilienus take him shopping for skiwear (rather unnecessarily, as there, uh, wasn't actually that much skiing involved in that particular holiday).

But then he remembers that he has a _second_ date and he's not going to do anything to, with, or around The Iron Bull anyway, so therefore on principle it doesn't matter if he answers the door dressed like a walking bed.

He opens the door. Erimond smirks at him and manages to get his foot in the door before Dorian can slam it in his greasy face. “Really, Dorian, there's no need for that. I'm here in my capacity as a family mediator.”

Interesting joke. Dorian doesn't feel like laughing at it. “I did wonder who Father would ask to dirty their hands on his behalf.” he says. “I didn't think he'd sink as low as _you_.”

“I'm sensing some hostility.” Erimond says, mock-mournfully. “Really, Dorian, your father is concerned about you. Even more so since you don't appear to have even considered his very generous offer.”

Dorian spends a few moments contemplating whether or not he might be able to break Erimond's foot if he slams the door with enough force. “Haven't, aren't, will not do so in the future. I'm staying right where I am and I don't need my father's money or his permission to do so.”

“I would reconsider, if I were you.” Erimond says, somehow managing to sound even slimier than usual. “I've taken the liberty of checking up on your neighbours. There are some very disreputable characters in this building. Your father found the news very concerning.”

Really, there's only one correct response to that one. Dorian calls to mind the boxing lessons he took to annoy his father, punches Erimond right in his smug face-- which hurts, more than he was expecting it to, but _so worth it_ \-- and slams the door when he stumbles back. Wasn't planning for that one, clearly. “If you're not gone in five minutes. I'll have you arrested for trespassing in my building.” he calls, through the door. “You want to mediate? You may pass the following message back to my beloved father: Fuck. Off.”

For a little while, all is quiet. Dorian's knuckles still hurt, and the feeling of angry satisfaction hasn't really gone away, either. Then, there's yet another knock at the door.

This time, he's breaking that bastard's nose, how _dare_ he, this is Dorian's _home_ , in all its grantedly somewhat downmarket splendour. He yanks the door open again, prepared with some of his foulest and choicest epithets (can't say his mother never taught him anything), and is therefore entirely _unprepared_ to see Bull standing there, holding what appears to be a plate. Covered with a teatowel. Which is decorated with dancing nugs.

“They ate all the pizza.” Bull tells him. “Sorry. Hope you like scones.”

Dorian isn't a hundred percent sure why Bull is apologising him for turning up at the door with food, to be honest. “Uh, sure.” he says, all the anger fizzling out in a moment. “Come in.”

* * *

The scones are still warm, and thankfully he does have at least some butter in the fridge, when Bull asks. 

He's somewhat painfully aware that his furnishings are rather more-- well, they told him the place came furnished, and he'd taken them at their word, and forgotten that words so often mean different things on different sides of the border. The table, a rather rickety thing, not only wobbles but is also covered in books and papers, and he doesn't think he has a chair that is both the right height for it and will bear up under Bull's considerable weight.

This means that the only place to offer Bull to sit is the couch, which sags in the middle and smells like wet dog no matter how many times Dorian sprays it with that stuff Josephine recommended. “Coffee?” he says, and then frowns because he can't remember how Bull took it or whether he has any milk.

Also, he wonders how terrible a person it would make him if he were to point out to Bull right now that he is a hundred percent sober and capable of consent and wouldn't at all mind giving Bull a tour of his bedroom, and also his tonsils.

He agreed to a second date, that's all. He's not _married_.

“Show me where your stuff is, I'll make it.” Bull says, in reply. “You should put some ice on that hand.”

So he doesn't say a thing. He lets Bull make him coffee and eats scones one-handed while the other rests in an ancient bag of frozen peas that Bull wrapped in the nug tea-towel because there wasn't any real ice in his freezer. He doesn't actually remember _buying_ peas, so possibly they're one of the things left over from the previous occupant, like the pervasive dog smell.

Bull doesn't ask about how he injured your hand. “Date go well?”

“Yes, actually. We've made plans for a second, at least.” Which, in Dorian's admittedly limited experience with dates, is generally a positive indicator.

“Maybe you can bring him to the next pizza night.” Bull suggests. “Or Wings Wednesday! Speaking of which, you coming to Wings Wednesday this week? Standing invitation.”

The scones are _really_ good. Dorian concentrates on that to avoid getting swamped by his feelings on the easy way Bull says _bring him_ , the broad and swift acceptance. They barely know each other and-- he doesn't know what it is, this comfort. Like, he might even tell Bull about Erimond, about his father, about why he's here at all, and it would still be okay.

But he doesn't. “I have to work Wednesday evening. Another time, perhaps. By the way, I finished the book you lent me.”

Bull takes up the offered new topic of conversation with some glee, for which Dorian is thankful. Discussing dragons and the tumultuous love-life of fictional characters: so much easier than talking about his own.

"Cute slippers." Bull says, and he nearly chokes on his last bite of scone.


	8. Chapter 8

After all that talk, Bull forgets to take the damn book back. He sees it when he comes out of the shower, after his miniature crisis over seeing himself in the mirror and remembering that he just spent far too much time talking about those damn dragon books, this time with bed hair and while wearing his _bunny slippers_.

Well, he promised he'd bring the plate back when he'd washed up, he might as well do it all at once. It doesn't take that long to rinse the last few crumbs off, dry it up with a much more sensible teatowel with no nugs on it, and head up the stairs.

It is not The Iron Bull, however, who opens the door when he knocks. A mildly familiar, and familiarly suspicious, face peers at him through the gap in the door. "Chief's in the shower." His body language adds, _and what do you want?_ fairly strongly.

Dorian has lived in Ferelden long enough not to be put off by a little mild suspicion, though. "Krem, right? I just came to return some things. Tell him I said thanks." Behind Krem, he can hear some snippets of conversation; probably a few of Bull's friends slept on his floor last night. There's no need for him to feel a little odd about Krem staying over as well, no matter how many times Bull's said _Krem's a great guy_ , or how excellently defined his biceps are.

He holds out the plate and book, and Krem takes them, and Dorian is about to turn and leave when Krem adds, "You read _this_?”

"The series actually has a great deal of emotional depth." Dorian says, automatically on defensive since this is an argument he's had with Rilienus several times. "Just because it's genre fiction doesn't mean it should be dismissed out of hand."

"You read the fucking dragon books." Krem says, as if it hasn't sunk in yet. "You _like_ the fucking dragon books. Not exactly ancient Tevene literature, is it?"

"With all due respect to the warmongering propaganda of our ancestors," Dorian tells him, "I prefer the fucking dragon books."

Krem laughs, genuine. "Fair enough. Just try not to encourage Chief too much, he's already trying to convince Rocky to help him with costumes. So far it mostly seems to involve a lot of leather straps."

Dorian remembers the cover of the third book, whose artist's taste in men had clearly been very much aligned to his own, and then wishes he hadn't, and then decides that, on second thought, that's a very good mental image and as long as nobody finds out he's having it, it's fine. "I can make absolutely _no_ promises, I'm afraid."

"I'll let the Chief know you came by." Krem says, and shuts the door in Dorian's face, but not _rudely_ , just rather punctuation to the natural end of the conversation. Well, it wasn't as if Dorian wanted to hang about and see The Iron Bull emerge from the shower, or anything.

He returns to his own apartment, and makes a good faith attempt at cleaning, although the spray that was left under the sink when he moved in smells like flowers that somebody left to die. It's something to occupy him so his mind doesn't dwell or anything else. Erimond doesn't come back, although Dorian's fairly sure there's very little he can do to stop him hanging about. Keep him out of Dorian's apartment, yes. Unfortunately he hasn't actually done anything Dorian can prove, other than get punched in the face.

A slimy bastard like Erimond is very good at 'nothing that anyone can prove'.

It's not like he thinks they're going to try and physically remove him from Ferelden-- too much risk of actual criminal charges. He considers briefly that Erimond might try something to mess with him at university, but he's pretty sure he's on firmer ground, there. What with no legitimate reason for Erimond to hang about campus and the fact that Flemeth is approximately a thousand times scarier than Erimond is slippery.

Only one thought catches; if Erimond has been investigating his neighbours, and possibly following him about, what's the chance that he picked up on Dorian's date last night? Or even if he didn't, that he will figure it out if he hangs about long enough? The thought of having Erimond following him about on dates, or Delrin getting harassed because he took Dorian to dinner-- ugh. Maybe he should talk to Rilienus again about that lawyer, even though he's really not in the mood to give Rilienus opportunities to meddle in his life right now.

Not to mention the reference to having his neighbours investigated. To be honest, he only really knows one person who lives in this building beyond the stage nodding at each other in the corridors, and that person is exactly who someone like Erimond would consider a _disreputable character_.

In the end, he decides he can handle it himself. A few hours and a few dozen browser tabs later, he's armed with the sort of legal knowledge that wouldn't necessarily hold up in an actual court of law, but ought to be perfectly sufficient for counter-threatening the likes of Erimond. As it turns out, he absolutely is within his rights to defend himself if someone tries to force their way into his home, although it doesn't actually say _by punching them in the face_. He feels it is an entirely valid interpretation of the law, though, and he's sticking to that.

There was some academic reading he was intending to do before Monday, but with this small victory he feels like he absolutely deserves a break for recreation. Perhaps a look to see if there's been any interesting updates on _Tal-Vashoth, Dark and Handsome!_ , a blog he's recently found dedicated to qunari actors, athletes, and celebrities of various sorts. There is often some interesting discussion about the treatment of the Tal-Vashoth community in southern Thedas, a side of local politics he wouldn't have considered before, although if he's to be honest it's the _shirtless pics!_ tag that brought it to his attention in the first place.

He's only scrolling through; he doesn't mean to stop but the picture of The Iron Bull (immediately recognisable even in rear view) has an arresting quality about it. One might say. One might note that given his occupation, it's unlikely that The Iron Bull would mind him looking.

One might entertain fantasies about getting caught doing exactly that.

 _Or_ , he corrects himself hastily, slamming the laptop shut, maybe he could do the reading that he'd promised Professor Flemeth he would have done before their meeting on Monday. What a splendid idea.

* * *

There's still a jumble of people of various levels of hungover in his living room; he can hear them even with his head half under the water. Likes the noise. In Seheron, quiet always meant something bad. As long as he can hear the birds singing--

He blinks and he's back. No birds. That's just Rocky, out of tune as usual. He steps out of the shower, dries off, and heads out to the living room before Skinner throws anything at him, like a chair. “I have to work nights for the next _two_ weeks.” Stitches moans, poking at his phone. “Kill me now.”

If he was hoping for sympathy, he's forgotten the crowd he hangs around with. The main response is Dalish picking up a pillow and miming putting it over his face.

“No asphyxiation in the house, kids.” Krem says, stepping out from the kitchen.

“We'll have the wake at the Striped Mabari.” Dalish responds, as Stitches pushes the pillow away one-handed while still tapping at his phone with the other. “I think it's what he would have wanted.”

“You and Skinner want a lift home?” Bull asks her. “I need to swing by the supermarket anyway.”

Skinner grins. “Out of condoms? Didn't think you were downstairs long enough for more than one round. Surprised we didn't hear anything, pegged him as a squealer.”

“Rocky had his ear to the floor.” Dalish adds, abandoning her attempts to suffocate Stitches. “Because he's a filthy pervert.”

Rocky shrugs, taking this accusation entirely on the chin. “Hey, do you know how much Madame de Fer charges pay-per-view to see this guy in action? It's not voyeurism, it's _economic necessity_.”

Skinner does throw something then-- thankfully nothing breakable, even as Bull laughs at them. “There was nothing to hear. Sorry to disappoint.”

There are a few general noises of disbelief. “He has some weird disease.” Dalish guesses. “He's actually two dwarves standing on top of each other-- no, wait, you'd totally go for that. Broke his penis in the war?”

“It's worse than any of those.” Krem says, exaggeratedly glum. “Posh-arse is a fan of _the dragon books_.”

He wonders when Krem found that tidbit out. “Shows great taste in literature.” he confirms. “Don't see the problem here.”

“Give him the address of my cousin's shop.” Rocky suggests. “They can do you some sort of sexy costume. Sexy warrior. Sexy mage. Sexy dragon--”

This time, Skinner does throw a chair.


	9. Chapter 9

Dorian looks up the ceiling and sighs. He'd had such high hopes for Wednesday.

* * *

Monday starts to go wrong right from the beginning.

He misses his bus, and ends up two minutes late to his progress meeting with Flemeth. She doesn't tear him down over his timekeeping-- but only in favour of what feels like a systematic destruction of the research plan he handed in last week.

Three hours and a lot of red ink later, he emerges for lunch with what is, granted, a much improved research plan, a somewhat battered ego, and in a definite mood to hide behind his desk and not talk to anybody right now.

Which is why it is unfortunate that Monday is the day that Solas decides to drop a book on his desk just as Dorian is unwrapping his sandwiches, which he will point out he made _himself_ , like a real functional person. The title appears to be in Elvish, which isn't very helpful given that Dorian speaks about three words of that, and those three are 'another drink, please'. “What is this in aid of?” 

“I thought you might like to read something _not_ written by an Exalted March apologist.” Solas says tartly, very much in the air of someone wanting to start a fight. It's immediately recognisable, as a tone of voice Dorian's used to great effect in the past.

Another day, he would absolutely take that bait. He's not in the mood today. He half-turns to where he's been storing his lunchtime reading. “Those books are on the undergraduate reading list, I hope you're aware.”

He means it as a dismissal, but it apparently a cue for Solas to descend into a rant about the state of undergraduate teaching in the history department, via a long digression about Modern Dalish Reconstructionism which, at least, gets the Dalish woman with all the piercings who sits two desks down to intervene.

By which he means the two of them get into something of a verbal punch-up that on any other day he would be very amused by, if they weren't practically doing it on top of his desk.

Mondays, honestly. The week can only get better from here.

* * *

Tuesday it rains. It rains when he's getting to university, it rains all day, it rains when he's on the bus home, and then within the ten minute walk from the stop to his door, some arsehole drives one of those giant trucks through a horrible dirty Fereldan puddle and manages to soak him. And his good coat.

An hour on the internet looking at increasingly unlikely home remedies for getting mud stains out, all of them involving common household goods he doesn't actually have in his apartment (who just _has_ soda water?), and he gives up and looks for drycleaning prices, instead.

Well, _fuck_.

No, this is fine. He certainly can't go without a coat, after all. He'll just get better at making his own sandwiches.

Wednesday is the midpoint of the week. It would be natural for that to be the turning point.

* * *

Wednesday he drops off his coat at the drycleaners, argues for twenty minutes about why they're charging him more than they said on the website, some nonsense about the fabric, and then spends the day in his second-warmest coat in the library, where there's a reading desk hidden away at the back of Comparative Literature, next to the radiator.

A small, brief moment of enjoyment in the selfie Delrin has sent him. Apparently rugby practice goes on every Wednesday morning whether the pitch has turned into a mudbath overnight or not. Rugby and mudwrestling are both what Dorian would term spectator sports, in that he has no interest in participating but my, don't Delrin and his muscles look grand.

He feels like he deserves a moment to be very very shallow about this, really. Is that so wrong?

He's even looking forward to the movie society's array of undoubtedly inferior southern films. He admittedly skipped Tuesday night because Antivan cinema, ugh, but in principle he's all in favour of broadening his artistic horizons. Yes, he has to work tonight, but it's just talking to people and selling them a few things, surely. He's wonderful at talking, and he's gotten fairly used to this ridiculous southern coinage. How hard could it be?

* * *

Call it a learning experience.

Lesson one: customer service jobs are not suitable for one Dorian Pavus. Why everyone has to hang about uselessly and then decide they want horrible prepackaged synthetic popcorn five minutes before the first movie starts he doesn't know, but he doesn't see why it should be his problem.

Ah, yes. The whole getting paid to be here thing. Unfortunate, that.

He'll probably be a better person for it, or some such rubbish, that's what Felix would say, but honestly he's really never really aspired to be a good person so why should he have to go through the character building part of things?

When he has passed through that ordeal, he gets to sneak into the back of the first film, an incredibly flouncy Orlesian period drama that does, to its credit, at least involve some rather choice insults being thrown around. Alas, so rarely is there a chance in modern life to call anybody a turncoat knave, perhaps while challenging them to a duel. It's a pity, really.

He's called back to slave over the cash box for the interval between the first and second films, and the second is simply awful. Apparently this is a Fereldan classic. There are dogs. So many dogs. He thinks the dogs might be metaphors for something. Perhaps for dogs.

Judging by the fervour of the discussion afterwards, he decides not to voice his true opinions on it, in favour of slowly working his way towards Leliana in the crowd because payment, in cash, after shift, that was the agreement.

She holds to it, and he tucks his earnings into his wallet with a sense of relief more than anything else. “I was planning to bring someone tomorrow, I'm presuming the offer of free tickets still stands?”

“Of course it stands. Delrin Barris, right?” She smiles at him, sweetly. It's mildly frightening. “The rugby boys talk. Especially when cornered. Do have a safe trip home.”

* * *

Wednesdays, he thinks, as he gets through his door, not entirely a waste of his time.

This is the point when he hears the noise. A low, rhythmic thumping that-- well, let's just say he's had a hotel room adjacent to Rilienus' often enough to be drearily familiar with it. Just as he's thinking that at least it lacks Rilienus' deliberately loud _look what you're missing_ moaning, whoever else is up there starts practically yelling their head off, as if on cue.

Definitely not The Iron Bull, at that pitch. Somebody is apparently, as a certain website would put it, 'riding The Bull' and apparently having a fantastic time of it. The noise waxes and wanes as he prepares for bed, but it doesn't stop.

They're still at it when he flops into bed. Dorian sighs at the ceiling. He'd _really_ had such high hopes for Wednesday. Also, he thinks angrily at whoever Bull's partner is tonight, if he was up there he'd be a little more _tactful_ about his enjoyment of the occasion.

Ah.

He probably shouldn't think about that possibility too hard. Hard being the operative word here.

Then again, it isn't as if this is _deliberate_ voyeurism. He's just trying to get some sleep, it's not his fault if the background noise ensures his mind keeps wandering back to the fact that he could absolutely be up there, given a few fewer shots of dwarven liquor or perhaps a little more practice at blatantly propositioning ones neighbour while sober.

And if he happens to reach down and palm his cock, that's his right, in his own damn apartment. If he chooses to remember a few pertinent film scenes while he's doing it, that's his right too.

Maybe the one, for example, with a handsome young man straddling The Iron Bull's thighs, hanging onto a horn for support. Not fucking, just frotting. Close-up shots on wet, messy kisses, The Iron Bull's low voice saying _fucking gorgeous_ and _let me see you come_.

It's the talking that's always done it for Dorian, more than anything else.

Now he's sticky, and may have to never look The Iron Bull in the eye again, but at least it might help him sleep. Tomorrow he'll take Delrin to the movies, subtly try to figure out how many dates Delrin considers a proper number before at least one of them gets bent over some furniture, and once he's getting laid regularly this-- whatever this is-- will stop.

Finding out your porn crush is actually kind of a nice guy would mess with anybody's head, after all. If he doesn't want it to, it doesn't have to mean a thing.

* * *

The name the guy gave at the bar, Bull suspects, is false. He also suspects he's been picked out for the sake of being a Qunari, more than anything else.

Still, the desire to get fucked into next week is honest, and he can always work with that. His partner is loud, and enthusiastic, and surprisingly flexible. A bit of fun, without the concerns of having to remember where the cameras are or pause mid-fuck so somebody can rearrange the lighting.

“That was great.” 'Max' says, afterwards, stretching happily. “Thanks. Mind if I borrow your shower before I go?”

“Feel free, but you can always stay the night, if you want.”

Max laughs, picking his clothes off the floor. It's not a bad view. “Ta, that's sweet, but I have work in the morning and I don't do sleepovers.”

_See you around_ he says, on his way out. Sure, The Iron Bull replies. He'll probably never see the guy again. He's gotten what he wanted already, after all.

A strange sense of dissatisfaction. These sort of arrangements are nothing new.

Why then, this unsettling emptiness?


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Delrin Barris is just far too nice to be real.

He meets with Delrin at a sensible time before the first film, in order to make sure they get decent seats. He's not that excited about the Orlesian frippery he has to sit through to get to some proper Tevinter cinema, but the best seats in the house are in order anyway. It's the principle of the thing. A Pavus does not sit in the cheap seats, even when all the seats are technically the same price and he got his for free.

Maybe with the lights down, he muses, watching his date ponder snack options, Delrin might get a little less virtuous. Dorian is an expert at tempting men in darkened places, after all, and--  


Honestly, what is he even doing. Wasn't he supposed to be moving _away_ from thinking of relationships in terms of a quick grope in a darkened room? Delrin turns back, grinning and holding up a bag of some sort of potato-based and dog-shaped supposed food item ( _Ferelden_ ).

He can hear Rilienus whinging about how mediocre this entire thing is in the back of his head already, but it's-- nice? Not that he hasn't enjoyed creating scandals, in his time, but as it turns out being entirely ignored by everyone around as your date leans in a little closer than is absolutely necessary to ask where they ought to sit is good, too.

He hasn't got laid in approximately _forever_ , but a few more chaste dates probably aren't going to kill him. The novelty hasn't entirely worn off yet, and besides, love surely can't always be fireworks and passion alone.

Dorian's still not entirely sure he's getting this right, but he should probably at least give it a chance.

They get settled down near the front, cheap chairs pushed together to get as many seats into the borrowed room as possible, so everyone is wedged close. Experimentally he lets his hand drift over towards Delrin's knee, and rather than being rebuffed finds his fingers' entwined with Delrin's own.

Holding hands, like teenagers in some awful romance novel. It should probably be sweet. He waits for a skipped heartbeat, or something, but it never quite comes.

Someone turns the lights off, starts that clattery old projector going. Some muttered apologies as some latecomers find seats at the back. He half-imagines he hears one of them speaking low, that slightest hint of Qunlat in his accent, and could slap himself if Delrin wasn't still holding his hand.

He is going to stop thinking about The Iron Bull, stop confusing sexual fantasies with an actual chance at an actual relationship, and go with this actual dating concept until he feels less like he's making it up as he goes along.

The Orlesian film is, at least, better than the one he'd seen the previous night. He recognises the title, although he's never seen it. Some controversy or other about the casting of an elf in the main role, although he supposes the real reason that said film never made it to Tevinter would be the amount of time said main character and her ex-girlfriend spend angrily kissing each other in-between political manoeuvring.

“Am I supposed to,” Delrin asks, as the lights come up at the end, “be a bit confused about whether they got back together out of love or politics?”

“Probably. It's Orlesian cinema, after all.” Dorian stretches a bit; the hand-holding slipped at some point among all the excruciatingly Orlesianness. “I think this is the one with a bunch of different endings; there's one where the cousin wins, one where one of them dies, that sort of thing.”

Delrin looks a little put out. “I'd prefer a more straightforward romance, to be honest.” he says, and Dorian wonders whether he should have invented Delrin to watch the Fereldan movie with the dogs, after all.

“I don't think Orlesian cinema and straightforward romance really go together.” Dorian says. “Do you want to get something to drink in the break?”

There is a brief and not very serious argument about who goes to get the drinks, before they end up going up together. It's not a straight-forward path; Leliana wants to know what he thought of the film (her favourite, apparently), a couple of Delrin's rugby teammates come over to get introduced and tease Delrin about not telling them had a date. Mostly the latter.

“Because I knew you'd do _this_.” Delrin says, as one of his teammates offers to tell Dorian lots of embarrassing stories, if he'd like.

Delrin Barris is very cute when he's flustered, but Dorian decides he should probably take pity this one time, not to mention get into the queue for drinks before it gets too late. The intermission bar consists of a couple of tubs of ice with bottles of beer stuck in, which is not exactly the greatest preparation for a theatre full of thirsty students. “Another time, perhaps. The bar is calling.”

“I'm sorry,” Delrin says, as they push through the crowds. “They think they're funny.”

“Mildly amusing, at best.” Dorian tells him, although honestly to him the response was so mild he doesn't really get why Delrin's even embarrassed. Surely there are far worse things that could happen.

“Dorian!”

Like, for example, the porn star who happens to be your neighbour deciding to interrupt your date. What is _The Iron Bull_ doing at a university film festival? “What a coincidence.” Maker, he sounds so awkward. That's immediately suspicious, isn't it? “Delrin, this is my neighbour, Bull.” Neighbour. Just neighbour. Ordinary neighbour.

Delrin shakes hands, entirely cheerful. “I know you from somewhere, I'm sure.” he says, and pauses for about five seconds while Dorian has a miniature heart attack. Surely _not_. “Were you in that charity eating contest? Pies for Peace?”

Bull grins. “Oh yeah, that was a good one. You too?”

“The whole rugby team ended up roped into it.” Delrin says, shaking his head ruefully. “Good cause, and all, but nobody took into account that we had a game the next day. I don't even want to think about that result. _Woeful_.”

Dorian's not even sure where to begin to deal with the idea that Bull and Delrin know each other, let alone via the route of charity pies. “Here to watch Magister Argentis? Unexpected.”

Bull shrugs. “Well, Red needed some things lifted, so here I am. Would have liked to see some Qun films on her list, but maybe next time.”

“I'm surprised the Qun goes in for cinema, all things considered.” Not that he's even looked into the matter, but Dorian's fairly sure that _oppressive governmental control_ and _splendid cultural expression_ do not go hand in hand.

“Well, only the educational sort.”

Ah, now he understands. “You mean propaganda.”

“Educational propaganda, and as if Tevinter's not the same? Magister Argentis always makes me think of this classic Qun film, actually.”

Dorian stares at him, but he's apparently quite serious. It's hard to tell, with the eyepatch. “I can't possibly imagine how you would draw parallels between any Tevinter film and _qunari propaganda_.”

“Mmm.” Bull seems to think for a moment. “Girl raised outside the Qun, knows nothing of it. Goes to an orphanage, becomes like a Tamassran to the younger kids. Eventually, she ends up back in the Qun, where she is assigned to work as a Tamassran, where she always belonged, curtain falls, everyone applaud.”

That's-- actually quite interesting, he might have to try and see if he can find bootleg qunari film clips later, but it's got nothing to do , as far as he can see, with Magister Argentis. “And _that_ makes you think about a film where a poor man rises to high status against all odds?”

Bull grins. “Other way around, but yeah. It turns out he was some Altus' bastard all along, right?”

Dorian leans back, frowning. That is a point. He didn't think about it, because it's a common theme in Tevinter literature-- the little matchgirl is _always_ the niece of some benevolent army officer who lost track of her when he was in Seheron, the farmboy's 'aunt' an old family servant who raised him in secret when assassins were after his family. “That's not to say Argentis wouldn't have succeeded if he _wasn't_ Altus.”

“But you think of him as Altus.” Bull responds. “Even though he doesn't find any of it out until he's accomplished most of his goals. Even though he was raised by Soperati and mentored by a Laetan.”

“There are nuances in the film that are very difficult to explain to someone who hasn't grown up in Tevinter.” Dorian snaps back, feeling very put-upon right now. “It's not all or nothing.”

The touch of something cold to his arm snaps him out of the argument. “The queue was dying down but it turns out that's because they ran out of everything but lemonade, so-- hope you like lemonade?” Delrin says.

Dorian isn't _opposed_ to lemonade, but when did Delrin-- “I'm sorry,” he says, taking the bottle, “I didn't mean to make you fetch the drinks.”

“Nah, it was just that you seemed really into the whole film discussion and I haven't actually _seen_ the film yet, so-- not much to discuss.” Delrin says. “You promised to explain it to me after, remember?”

Ah, yes.

Magister Argentis is one of the classics of Tevene cinema – if a little _too_ straight-faced in following the traditional narrative strictures. Dorian has seen it many times, but never with the chance to mentally critique the frankly _awful_ subtitling it comes with in the South.

How anyone is supposed to understand the subtler references if the _translator_ apparently blundered past them unawares? He manages-- barely-- to hold off on explaining the details to Delrin until _after_ the movie finishes, only to be drawn into an argument by some idiot in the row behind who has the absolute gall to imply that the Antivans did this plotline not only first, but _better_.

Delrin puts a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Could we go somewhere a little quieter?”

Now _that_ snaps him out of the futility of arguing with someone who thinks Antivan cinema has merit. Is this Delrin finally making some sort of move? “Of course.”

They head out, up to the building entrance. Leliana's people are already packing up, there's probably a class here tomorrow morning. Dorian nods awkwardly at Bull, who tucks a stupidly large box under one arm to wave at them with the other, and considers where they can go that isn't outside and therefore freezing.

Up the stairs, then, where a few shabby tables and chairs mark the location of one of the public study spaces nobody ever uses for actual studying.

“I had fun tonight.” Delrin says. “I wanted to say that first. I just-- I don't think we're right for each other.”

Oh. They're having _this_ conversation. Dorian's been on both sides of this before, but normally you wait until _after_ the ill-advised sexual encounter, otherwise what's the point? “May I ask what brought you to that conclusion?”

“I was sort of thinking maybe it would work out when we got to know each other better, but here's the thing.” Delrin says. “I don't want to be the guy you date while you work up the courage to tell your neighbour you're into him.”

What? Admittedly he's not feeling exactly broken hearted, but he'd like an actual reason, not some bizarre and spurious assumption about his feels for The Iron Bull. “What would give you the idea I'm into him?”

That grin is unfairly handsome. “Andraste hates liars, you know.”

“I'm _not_.”

“Look me in the eyes and tell me you feel a deep emotional connection.” Delrin tells him, straight-faced.

He tries, he really does. But his eyes keep sliding a little down and sideways. “You have such nice shoulders. I figured 'fake it till you make it'. Tevinter national motto, that one.”

“And you're really good looking, although kind of an asshole sometimes, but in a charming way.” Delrin's aforementioned magnificent shoulders slump a bit. “I just can't do the faking it bit.”

Well, he supposes he'll take 'good looking and charming' out of that. “Tevinter would eat you alive, you know.”

There is a long and awkward silence. Delrin looks down at his hands for a moment. “Leliana loves free labour.” he says, finally. “Why don't you go help her pack up?”

Honestly, this man. Why can't Dorian be smart enough to fall in love with someone like Delrin Barris? “Would you like a list of reasons that's a terrible idea?”

“Nope. I want you to humour me, because you just broke my heart.”

Delrin's tone is pretty light, for a broken-hearted man. “I thought Andraste hated liars.” Dorian tells him, but Delrin won't stop giving him those-- forgive him for this moment of Fereldanness-- puppy eyes. “Fine, but only to humour you and out of remorse for breaking your heart.”  


The grin Delrin gives him makes Dorian suspect he's just been played by possibly the least manipulative person he's ever met, but all the same, he turns on his heel and heads downstairs. To humour him, and because it couldn't hurt to get on the good side of Leliana, and for no other reasons at all.


	11. Chapter 11

Maybe it's because he always ends up lifting things for her, but Red reminds him a little of the small fierce Tamassran who had the overseeing of them in basic training.

It's not even that heavy, most of it, although he supposes a little bulky for someone less broad through the chest. Easy work for a friend, even if she wasn't offering free movies and popcorn. A little sad to miss _101 Mabari_ yesterday, puppy films are the best thing Ferelden has ever invented, but Wings Wednesdays are sacred.

He's checking over the main box of equipment when he hears footsteps behind him. Oh, good, Leliana did send somebody to assist. “Grab the two boxes by the door, would you? You know where the storage closet is downstairs?”

“I'm afraid you'll have to provide directions.”

Now there's a voice he wasn't expecting to hear tonight. Leliana had informed him-- without him actually having to ask-- that Delrin Barris was 'a nice boy'. Good for him, he'd thought. Always a sucker for a happy ending.

So Dorian shouldn't be here, except he is. “Sure, let me just finish packing this up and I'll go down with you.”

Dorian, when he looks over his shoulder, is leaning against the doorframe like he's being paid to model the jeans he's wearing. He tucks the last pieces into their little foam holders-- something very nice about a properly packed box-- and lifts it carefully, because this stuff is probably expensive and difficult to replace and Leliana would definitely do something unpleasant to him if due care wasn't taken.

“So where are we heading, other than 'downstairs'?” Dorian asks, picking up the smaller boxes once he sees Bull is done.

“Hang a right right outside, go to the end of the corridor, take those stairs down as far as they go.”

“So, the basement.” Dorian confirms. “Fucking _Thursdays_.”

The last is more of a muttered interjection as he swings around. Bull wonders if he should ask. Sometimes, people just want to be asked so they have an excuse to talk about things. It's also entirely possible that none of this is his fucking business.

They remain silent until they reach the bottom of the stairs. Dorian doesn't need much further direction, as the room is only a short way down the corridor and has a sign saying FILM SOCIETY on it, with a piece of paper tacked underneath that reads _no nitrocelluose! THIS MEANS YOU, DAGNA_.

Dorian doesn't actually speak until they've stowed the boxes. “As it turns out,” he says, “Delrin Barris is a wretchedly wholesome creature. Never skips breakfast. Can't imagine why I thought the entire thing was a good idea in the first place.”

“Breakfast is the most important meal of the day.”

“Just whose side are you on, anyway?” Dorian grumbles. “My point _was_ , yes, I just broke up with him, no I do not need to cry on anyone's shoulder, allow me to spare you the hassle of asking.”

Well, at least he doesn't seem too put out by the whole thing. “Amicable, then?”

“I suppose that's one way to put it.” Dorian replies. “No yelling, no threats, no storming off. Nobody slammed a door. There wasn't a door readily available, granted, although I don't think that ever stopped my mother. We didn't even bother to swap witty insults. The whole thing was rather bizarre.”

Bull locks the door behind them, considers the key in his hands. Leliana will probably be organising some sort of drinks, and he doesn't have a shoot in the morning, so taking her up on her offer is entirely possible, but Dorian probably needs--

Don't make excuses, Tama would say. You're very good at finding reasons the Qun _needs_ the thing you _want_. He says it anyway.“You want a lift home?”

“As much as I enjoy waiting in the cold for the bus, if you're offering.” Dorian smiles. “At least I know it's not out of your way.”

* * *

He hands the key off, upstairs, to the first minion of Leliana's he recognises, and leads Dorian to where he's parked the van. It's not the fastest thing in the world, but with his depth perception you need to take things a little slower anyway, and it's reliable and can fit a whole piano in the back. A small one, at least, as Rocky had emphasised multiple times when convincing Bull to help him with it.

Dorian looks it over, slowly. “Very-- clean.” he says, finally, clambering into the passenger's seat and frowning at the air freshener while Bull arranges himself in the driver's seat. “Is there any item you haven't managed to purchase in the shape of a dragon?”

Probably shouldn't mention the dildo. “It smells like incense, I guess because of the fire-breathing.”

“Oh, I'm sure they put a lot of effort into being thematically consistent when producing a dragon-shaped air freshener.” Dorian says, flicking a finger at it to make it swing. “Actually, in Tevinter mythology, dragons are often said to breathe ice, or lightning.”

“I didn't know that.” In Par Vollen they only spoke of fire, when they spoke of dragons. Metaphors of how a tool for good becomes chaos and destruction when not properly controlled. Around here, you speak of dragons and people presume you're talking about the sports team.

Dorian takes this as his cue to launch into a spirited description of Tevinter myths surrounding dragons, peppering it with translations of classic literature he insists can't be properly translated, and bringing up various theories about the origin of the 'draconic myth', mostly in order to trash them and everyone who believes in them.

It's a fun way to spend a drive home.

He finds a parking spot and is about to get out when Dorian puts a hand on his arm. “A moment?”

“You want to talk, you can come up to mine. I'll make tea.”

“I'll pass on tea, and I think this should be said.” Dorian looks deeply serious for a moment. “There really is no graceful way to put this, but when I met you, I was not exactly unaware of-- oh, blighted hells, I've seen your porn."

That statement hangs in the air a moment. “It's made to be seen. Don't worry about it, it's no bother to me.” True, in the sense of _it doesn't upset me_ , but he feels this information spread through him, ripples on water.

“Well, where I grew up, you don't generally introduce yourself to a neighbour with _by the way, I have seen your penis_.” Dorian says tartly, gaze flicking distractedly anywhere and everywhere _but_ Bull's crotch. “But we are friends now, and I wouldn't feel right, misleading you.”

“So, what did you think? A good body of work, right?”

“Somebody else writes your dialogue, don't they. They must.” Dorian huffs, and then straightens, serious again. “I just wanted that out of the way before I asked the next bit. I am, at this moment, entirely single, entirely sober, and in dire need of a distraction. I do seem to recall some ridiculously overblown promise to, and I quote, 'blow my mind'. Care to deliver on that?”

There's no wandering gaze, now; he meets Bull's eyes as he says it. Dorian _needs_ , and Bull can't resist an excuse. “My place or yours?”

“Provided the _bed_ isn't shaped like a dragon, yours.”


	12. Chapter 12

It is not as if Dorian has not, in the past, made a habit of rash and probably unwise decisions. Might as well call it a hobby, really. So it is not as if he does not realise he may come to regret this, in time. He's so often had cause to regret things at leisure.

But right now, Dorian Pavus is going to seduce a porn star, and he doesn't feel much like regretting anything at all.

Well, he might regret not travelling back in time to destroy whoever thought designing those _things_ Bull is wearing on his legs was a good idea. He supposes he'll agree to call them trousers, for lack of a better descriptive term. He has learnt to give some leniency in these matters in Ferelden, a nation whose fashion aesthetic might be charitably described as 'determinedly functional', but a man has limits. “These are ghastly.” he says, when they're safely ensconced by themselves in the elevator, tugging at the waistband. “I'm going to have to tear them off you.” Possibly to shreds, if he can manage it.

“Feisty. I like it.” Bull says, grinning down at him. “Try to restrain yourself until we're inside, my neighbour across the hall has a strict rule about not seeing my bare ass more than twice a month.”

Well, considering that request, Dorian leans up for a kiss instead. It turns out the horns _are_ good for hanging on to, and that although he was going for something more in the realm of 'feisty' that kisses can turn sweet and soft and slow without you really intending anything of the sort.

They only pull back when the elevator dings. Bull's lips part, but no words come out. He looks--

He looks like nothing Dorian has ever seen captured on film, and that's a dangerous thought, because Dorian is here for sex, and is definitely not angling or even considering angling for anything else at all.

This is the point where an apparently quite angry dwarf yells “Get the fuck out of the elevator and get a fucking room!” practically in Dorian's face.

“Sorry, Cadash,” Bull says, as they step out of the elevator.

“No soppy couple bullshit in the hallway,” Cadash says, stepping in and stabbing one of the buttons like she has a grudge against it. “If I catch you serenading each other I will call the authorities.” she adds, as the elevator door closes before Dorian can think of a suitable way to respond, mostly to inform her that they are _not_ a couple.

He looks to Bull, instead. “Charming lady.”

Bull grins. “Good person to know if you lock yourself out of your apartment. Not usually that cranky. Come on, let's get inside before we scandalise any more neighbours.”

“I, for one, am quite fond of scandal,” Dorian informs him, as he waits for Bull to dig his keys out. “Used to warrant the occasional mention in the gossip columns. Not by name, of course-- oblique references only, to stave off the inevitable lawsuits. One would-be wit did once attempt a not very good pun involving alleged sex acts in a hot tub and the fact that my initials are _d_ and _p_.”

The alleged sex acts had been a lot of fun, actually, and deserved a better quality of pun. Also, he wants to make sure that Bull isn't under the impression he's some kind of blushing innocent. Also, he expects may be rambling. Bull _finally_ gets the door open, this is taking forever. “I don't have a hot tub, sorry.”

He suppose it takes more to surprise someone who makes porn for a living. He'll have to think if he has any particularly scandalous stories that don't involve Rilienus. “Give me some credit please, that part of the rumour was false. Hot tubs are breeding grounds for disease and make my skin dry.” He pauses, for effect. “We used a bed.”

“One of those, I do have.” Bull hangs his jacket up carefully on an actual hook by his door, takes Dorian's coat from him and puts it on the adjoining hook. Toes his shoes off and puts them on a rack beneath the hooks; Dorian silently follows suit, because he isn't a complete idiot. “Any other requests?”

Oh, far too many. So few he can admit to when this is a one-night stand, even more so when it's a one-night stand he's going to have to actually interact with afterwards. “I would quite like to ride you, if you think you can resist the obvious pun.”

“I think I could be convinced.” Bull says, and Dorian laughs and kisses him again, just because.

He's only got one night, after all. Might as well make the most of it.

* * *

By the time they actually make it to the bedroom, Bull's shirt is gone, although the trousers sadly remain. It is surprisingly tastefully decorated-- which is good, Dorian might have had to call this whole thing off if there was a mirror on the ceiling. He pushes Bull towards the bed, and then when he goes, strips his shirt and jeans off, enjoying the little whistle he gets when he rather deliberately bends over to drop the discarded clothing on a chair.

Well, at least he knows Bull's paying attention. As he should. Dorian has a very attractive ass, which deserves appreciation. “Get those terrible trousers off before I change my mind.” he informs Bull, who is still lounging on the bed. “Supplies?”

“Cupboard on the left.” Bull says.

He's distracted for a little while, partially by the sheer breadth of the selection, mostly by trying to find a lube that is not flavoured, pink, or both. Why is 'Candy Ass' even a brand? Who comes up with this stuff? Having managed to locate both plain lube and a couple of condoms in what look like appropriate sizes, he looks over to see, well.

Proportional is a word. Careful analysis of video evidence in the past leads Dorian to believe that The Iron Bull is a shower, not a grower, but all the same. Looking at the evidence in person, he is reminded of the ambitiousness of the task he has set before him.

Dorian _loves_ a challenge.

The trousers may be gone, but Bull's still working on something on his leg, some athletic support or other he nearly does a magic trick with, it disappears so fast when Dorian looks his way. “Aww, not strawberry flavoured?”

“Nothing in my pants needs to smell like either flowers or food, thank you very much,” Dorian informs him, flicking one of the larger condoms his way and opening the lube.

“Want to come over here and kiss me while you're doing that?” Bull asks, and what a lovely suggestion that is. It does take a little awkward rearrangement, figuring out the appropriate arrangement of limbs, but it means Dorian can kiss him while he fingers himself, and discover that when suitably worked up, Bull makes this charming little noise under his breath, not quite a growl, like he can't even help it. “Fuck, you're a good kisser.”

Dorian doesn't dignify that with a response; it's true, and what else was he expecting? Besides, he's more preoccupied with the fact that he's just figured out that what he thought was Bull's 'film voice' is Bull's _sex voice_ , and in related matters, where the fuck did that condom go?

Half-under a sheet, is the answer. Bull leans back a little when his intent becomes obvious, as if to say, 'have at it', and Dorian pauses a moment and considers the scale of the problem before him. He of course can put a condom on with his mouth, a trick learnt in the same time-span of misguided youth in which he learnt to tie a knot in a cherry stem using his tongue, and how to blow smoke-rings with purloined cigarettes, but this seems like a job for which one should use ones hands.

Plural. Definitely plural, thank you Maker for seeing fit to deliver to Dorian this glorious cock.

“You alright there?” Bull asks, which makes him realise he's just sort of _looking_.

“Just taking a moment to enjoy the view,” Dorian replies, and why shouldn't he? If he only has one night, he should enjoy it to the fullest, after all.

But certainly, man cannot live on voyeurism alone. He finds his position, Bull's hands on his waist, just supporting, not guiding. “You can take it slow,” Bull says.

Fuck _that_ , it's not been that long. “I'll take it however I like, if it's quite all right with you.”

“Yeah,” Bull replies, low and pleased. “Go on, show me how you like it.”

Perhaps a little slow, at first. It has been a little while. Not for too long, though-- it may be unwise, but Dorian has a great deal of experience of pushing his body to do the things he wants, and he wants this with an intensity that's almost a hundred percent certainly stupid as hell, given that he's going to have to walk away in the morning.

He's going to ache, but _so worth it_. Grabs a horn to direct Bull's attention, draws an imaginary neckline across his shoulders. “No marks above this line, if you please.”

One large thumb traces the exact same path across his skin. “And below?”

“Take a _hint_ , fuck,” Dorian tells him, the last perhaps a little huskier than he intends. A moment to breathe, prepare himself. It may be a little ambitious to hope to be the best a noted porn star has ever had, but he intends to at least get his name on the leaderboard. “I suppose I should try to avoid returning the favour?”

“I'm hard to mark up,” Bull says, hand dropping to his hip to squeeze in a way that makes a shudder run up Dorian's spine.

Oh, really? “Sounds like a challenge to me,” Dorian retorts, finds his grip on one horn and a shoulder, and starts to move, building up his rhythm. Can't help the noises that escape him, because he's never been any good at keeping quiet, much to his past detriment.

“The neighbours are going to complain,” Bull says, but when Dorian checks his expression he merely looks pleased with himself.

He sincerely hopes he doesn't think Dorian cares for the opinions of random southerners. “I'm your neighbour, and I'm complaining _now_ , why are you using your mouth for _talking_.”

The intended meaning is _why don't you leave some actual marks?_ He doesn't mean, _kiss me_ , but apparently Bull is just terrible at taking a hint, actually the absolute worst. Dorian may think about forgiving him for this provided the kissing doesn't stop. Then one hand tightens on his hip and another wraps around his cock, and Dorian finds himself incapable of thinking about much at all that isn't _move, move, move_.

He feels Bull shudder underneath him, and that's what does him in, in the end. By the time he's got his breath back he finds himself on his back, sheets soft except for the bottle of lube poking into his hip, as Bull disposes of the condom. It's a good view, but Dorian thinks he can do better.

After all, he hasn't managed to leave any marks yet.

“I hope you realise,” he informs Bull, “that you are now obligated to pick a position for round two.”

He only gets one night, after all. Rolling over and going to sleep _now_ would definitely be a waste. From the grin he gets in return, he's pretty sure that Bull agrees with him on this point.


	13. Chapter 13

He wakes a little later than usual. A warmth in his limbs, the pleasant ache of muscles well-used. Pinch of the strap where he'd left the patch on-- after one night, even one very extended night involving multiple rounds of fantastic sex, is generally not the time to try airing out his nastier scars. People can't look at it, or alternatively, they ask too many questions.

Hissrad makes for a terrible bedtime story.

There's a space next to him on the bed, a telling absence of clothing scattered around the room. He pushes himself up, surveys the area. Ah-- not entirely absent, because if he's not wrong the underwear hanging on the standing lamp are exactly where Dorian flung them at some point last night.

Deliberate? Or in a hurry this morning?

Guessing at the truth won't change it. What is he going to do, write a report? Dear anybody who cares what I get up to these days, fucked a guy you probably still consider the enemy, three (3) times, also he bites. Best I've had in a while. Left before I woke up this morning. Hope this information helps.

If Dorian doesn't want to hang around, he doesn't want to hang around. He should take a shower, send a brag-text to Isabela (because after all, _three times_ ), water the pot-plant in the kitchen, make himself breakfast. Lots to do.

He could have said goodbye. Bull wouldn't have minded being woken up.

It is at this moment that the shriek of the fire alarm cuts across his thoughts. What the--

* * *

“I am really very sorry.” Dorian says, again, looking mournful.

“Don't worry,” Bull tells him, again. “They weren't expensive curtains, or anything.” The burnt-plastic stink filling his kitchen speaks pretty well to that.

“In my defence, your coffee-maker is very complicated.” Dorian says, gesturing at the general disaster zone around him.

There shouldn't even have been an open flame _involved_ in this process. He feels something tickle at the back of his throat, and it's not the fumes. “We should open a window and let it air out. You're not hurt?”

“Unharmed,” Dorian confirms, “and still very, very, sorry. I honestly just thought it would be nice to make some coffee.”

Bull stifles a chuckle, just. “A valiant attempt,” he manages. “Not your fault the coffee fought back.” Dorian's offended glare just sets him off entirely. 

“You arse,” he says, as Bull laughs helplessly, but there's the hint of a smile in the way his lips twist. “See if I ever do anything nice for you ever again.”

“I don't own that many spare curtains,” Bull tells him, managing to pull himself together. “Make you a deal – you clean this up, I'll make a coffee run, grab some pastries or something?” The place on the corner does these strawberry croissant things that are _the best_ , and also he doesn't really want to cook breakfast while the kitchen smells like burnt fabric.

Dorian hesitates, just a moment. “I suppose I can spare the time to stay for breakfast.”

* * *

The first rush of the morning is just tailing off when he gets to the coffee shop, so he idles in the queue for a few minutes deciding which pastries to get, since Dorian had been very specific about his coffee order but had merely said _surprise me_ for the food, and there's only one strawberry croissant left. Does Dorian like almonds?

Food and coffee in hand, he isn't really paying attention to the other customers other than trying to squeeze his way back out without knocking into them or anything else, when somebody steps deliberately into his path.

It is a man of probably middle age, wearing an ill-fitting suit. “Excuse me,” he says, as if he isn't the one blocking Bull's path.

“Queue starts on the other side,” Bull replies. Unusual, there aren't many visitors from Tevinter around here, but his accent is unmistakable. 

There's also something about him that puts Bull's senses on alert. It might be the way he's a good bit shorter than Bull but appears to be trying to look down his nose at him anyway. Not very well-- the facial bruising from where somebody apparently clocked him recently certainly isn't helping. “I have a business proposition for you.”

Ah. He bites back a sigh. He gets this occasionally, people who think because they've seen his cock on camera it means he's for sale more generally. They're usually easy to spot because anyone who thinks like this presumes they're above him, even when they actually desperately want to be under him. “Not interested.” He has a much more attractive 'vint waiting for him, after all, and he doesn't want to waste time explaining why this is not going to happen. The coffee will get cold.

The man doesn't move. “I am merely seeking a little information. Well within your capabilities, I'm sure.”

Well, that's new. At least in one sense, although he's pretty sure this guy has no idea about his _capabilities_ , or Hissrad's. “Still not interested.” Also, considering Dorian's bruised knuckles, this guy's face, and the fact that they plus Krem make the only three vints Bull has ever known to visit this part of town, he's pretty sure he can make a good guess about what this guy is after.

Doesn't quite know the shape of _why_ , yet.

Not that that's his business.

He has to resort to looming into the guy's personal space to get him to back off. “If you change your mind.” he says, and drops a business card into the bag of pastries Bull is holding before he can do anything about it, then slithers out the door.

* * *

He waits until after Dorian's had his coffee and half of the strawberry croissant before he fishes the slightly sticky business card out of his pocket and puts it on the table between them. “This guy tried to talk to me at the coffee shop. Fishing for information. Didn't say your name but-- just thought you should know.”

Dorian looks at it a moment, and mutters something presumably uncomplimentary under his breath that Bull only half-catches. “I am aware he's been around. Not that he still was after--”

He trails off for a moment, and shrugs. “After you made your feelings about his presence clear?” Bull asks, tapping his cheek.

Dorian scowls. “Look, just-- it's a family matter, and I'm dealing with it, so if you would kindly _not_ interfere, I would be most grateful.”

“Didn't see much of a family resemblance.”

“Poking around for more information does _not_ count as not interfering.” Dorian informs him. “If you must know, I believe my father has hired him in the hopes he'll find some way to convince me to come home and stop embarrassing the family. He's an annoyance, but also a self-serving coward, so I doubt he poses much of a threat.”

Not much of a physical threat, perhaps. “Not on good terms with your folks?”

“The story is drearily mundane, I'm afraid.” Dorian says. “We have established, I sincerely hope, that I enjoy the company of men. I'm rather shocked after last night that I would have to spell that out to you. Tevinter society in general, and my father in particular, frowns on such things, and therefore here I am, free to drink terrible beer and ruin my romantic prospects entirely on my own, without outside interference.”

Krem's told him enough about Tevinter to fill in the rest. “Your father disapproved, so you moved here, and he disapproves of that, too?” Honestly, he wasn't all that good at following the Qun, as it turned out in the end, but child raising-- he's fairly sure they've got that shit figured out. The alternatives appear to be entirely too much of a mess.

“Well, given how ineffective his disapproval was up close, I can't figure out how he expects it to be any good from afar.” Dorian nabs another pastry, pretends for a moment to be greatly interested in it, or at least in tearing it to pieces. “A last-ditch effort, I suppose. He'll give up and leave me to my debauchery eventually, I'm sure.”

“There's debauchery?” Bull says, and wiggles his eyebrows.

Dorian smiles, at last, and lets the remainder of the pastry drop. “Well, I don't technically have to be at university until after lunch, so... there could be.”

Hey, not like he's going to say no to that smile.


	14. Chapter 14

Weeks pass, and the thing that Dorian told himself would be a one-night affair has become-- well. It's something. Mostly, he supposes, it's further evidence that Dorian is quite terrible at resisting Temptation.

The Order of Argent had a lot to say about Temptations. Not very much of it had focused on the unwiseness of placing a teenaged Dorian Pavus in a dormitory full of similarly horny teenage boys, as a method of avoiding said Temptations. He had tried to point this out, several times, to no avail.

Oh well. Fond memories of the detention room, at least.

No, the Temptations the Order of Argent had been concerned about were physical manifestations of failure, each one lovingly represented on the walls of the poky little school Chantry as a sort of flame-wreathed, qunari-shaped reminder of the Wages of Sin.

Certainly the muscular oiled form of Pride had inspired Dorian to prayer, or at least thoughts in the vague direction of being on his knees, but he'd never been very convinced by the concept, really. Desire whispering in his ear when he was alone in bed, all that-- he'd made a joke about whether an educational professional should be thinking so much about what teenaged boys did alone in bed, gotten another detention, and then managed to get expelled before the Order of Argent could teach him any more about Temptations, mostly by the simple method of succumbing to them and trying to drag as many of his dormmates with him as he could.

Still, he'll give them one point: Temptation definitely had horns.

It was just that nobody had warned him that what Temptation would actually do was not whisper in his ear when he was asleep, but kiss him at the door on the way out of what was meant to be a one night stand and then invite him to come out for pizza the following day.

It is not as if Dorian is unfamiliar with the concept of friends-with-benefits. It is just that previously, this has involved booty calls or a shared look across a room followed by a careful exit to the nearest private space. It has _not_ involved the friends of your friend-with-benefits knowing exactly what's going on, and finding it hilarious for some reason. Or the occasional plate of scones outside his door with a note stuck to it about not studying too hard. It has definitely not involved, for example, ending up snuggling into his side in public while conducting an argument about Antivan opera with Stitches over a plate of wings.

It's not that he expects--

Well, he doesn't know what he expects. Just that should he want it, The Iron Bull's door is always open, and knowing that is a temptation Dorian finds quite impossible to resist.

He could get used to this.

It's unfortunately possible that he already has.

* * *

Rilienus would undoubtedly have no end of things to say about this arrangement, which is precisely why Dorian has told him nothing about any of it.

_go on any more dates recently?_ he does ask, because Rilienus is a nosy bastard and a gossip-hound to the end.

He only hesitates a moment, but nothing he's done since Delrin broke things off really counts as a date. Sex marathon, yes. Date, no. _footloose and fancy free_

_you really should give me your address, i'll send you some company_ Rilienus returns, with an obfuscated link that Dorian really should know better than to open up, at this point in their friendship.

Heads, it's an escort site. Tails, it's some sort of high-end sex-toy. Either way, he's not going to let Rilienus send him anything, but if he doesn't at least respond in some way he'll just get messages asking him what he thought the rest of the evening.

The first thing he sees is a lot of pink.

The second thing is a very familiar... well, he would say face, but the advertisers of this particular item have decided to focus on The Iron Bull's derrière. Not a bad choice of angle, and very familiar, all the same, but not usually pictured along with the largest, pinkest dildo he's ever seen in his life. And... are those _wings_?

Maker, the thing is in terrible taste. Possibly the worst sex toy he has seen in some time, and exactly the sort of thing Bull would love because he is actually that ridiculous.

_unnecessary, Rilienus_

_very necessary. HIT THAT. get it out of your system_

Dorian considers Rilienus' response to being told that he has, and it didn't, and frowns at his phone. He never can put his finger on it, but sometimes Rilienus can be a bit-- well, somewhere between weirdly overprotective and just plain weird. As if whether or not he sleeps with the pornstar upstairs is going to make any difference to their friendship.

Bull isn't actually home right now, so that's something of a moot point right now. Instead, he decides to go to the coffee shop around the corner which at this time of day won't mind if he buys one coffee and sits in the comfy seats with a pile of papers to read. It'll make a nice change of scenery, and also he still has money riding on when exactly that one barista and the freelance photographer with all the piercings will finally give in to what pretty much every regular customer recognises is the inevitable, and kiss.

Maybe, although it's not entirely playing by the rules, he'll try to nudge them along. He's already got plans for his winnings, he'd thought by this point at least one of them would have figured out that they're obviously in love.

Honestly, some people can be so _dense_.

* * *

As it turns out, that one barista isn't on shift, and the photographer turns up and gets a coffee to go before Dorian can get the chance to do much intervening at all.

Ah well. Another time.

He does have work to do, indications of how wrong all these Orlesians are to scribble in the margins, and so forth. Also he thinks he's really starting to work this whole _poverty-stricken academic_ look, and the coffee shop is a wonderful place to take selfies of himself looking particularly intellectual, in that somebody actually bothered with interior design, as in, it has one. You can barely tell it's actually in Ferelden.

He breaks up the tedium of terribly incorrect Orlesians with photos sent to Rilienus, who thankfully is always happy to be distracted from serious conversation in return for selfie-swapping and mutual flattery. Rilienus appears to be at a pool, or on a yacht, or possibly at a pool which is on a yacht, and there's something about a charity auction.

Dorian supposes there'll be champagne, and endless tiny morsels of very expensive food, and Rilienus will laugh about how much money they're raising for _orphaned nugs, or whatever_ and then find somebody to have sex with in the bathrooms, or in the back of the limo on the way home.

Pointless nostalgia. He sweeps all his papers into his bag– he really needs to find himself some sort of artfully distressed leather satchel– intending to head home. Bull will be back from work fairly soon and since Dorian has located some of those iced biscuits he likes he won't feel so bad about heading upstairs to see if there's a dinner invite going.

No sooner has he stepped out onto the street than someone's in his way.

“Dorian, how good to see you again.”

Funny, he didn't smell an excess of slime about, but there Livius Erimond is. “Didn't you get the hint the last time?”

“You mean, when you threw your little temper tantrum?” Erimond doesn't seem too put out. In fact, he looks suspiciously pleased with himself. “I wouldn't recommend a repeat, Dorian. We're in public.”

“Would you like another message to pass along to my father? The content will be approximately the same: fuck. off. There's nothing you can do to change my mind.” He takes care to properly enunciate on the _fuck_ , just for clarity.

“Nothing directly, granted. Nothing to _you_.” Erimond says, smirks wider, and waits.

Shit, shit, _shit_. No, he has to be bluffing. “I can't imagine what you're talking about.”

“Your father is very concerned about your choices in friends, Dorian.” Erimond continues. “Quite distressed, really. Increased my fee considerably. Come now, you know how this game is played. You decide not to associate with them, or I make associating with you sufficiently costly that they rethink their life choices, so you don't have to.”

“This isn't Tevinter.” Dorian points out. In Tevinter, he would have believed it. He's had certain 'acquaintances' suddenly develop an aversion to answering his texts or being seen in public with him, although he's never had any direct proof as to why. The right word in the right ear, and all that. They're not in Tevinter, though. From Dorian's perspective, that's actually sort of the _entire point_ of Ferelden, that it is not in Tevinter.

“Oh, it takes a little more finesse, this far from civilisation, but trust me, I am quite capable of making your _friend_ 's life quite unpleasant until such time as you see sense.”

He _has_ to be bluffing. “Go away, Erimond.”

Erimond does not go away. “I am a little impressed, actually. Most lads your age, when they want to annoy their fathers, they just impregnate an elf or something. You went to the extra effort of coming all the way out to this heap of steaming dogshit, finding yourself a qunari whore, _and_ managing to withstand the stench long enough to fuck him. Bravo--”

Honestly, punching him at this point is more of a reflex than anything else. Dorian has always been rather sceptical of claims that _my body moved before I could think_ or anything of the sort; it's rather anathema to his usual mode of operation, which is to make terrible decisions but at least do so in full control of his faculties. But no, apparently your body can move without conscious thought, and also his body really rather feels Erimond needs a good punch in the face.

Dorian concurs, which explains the second punch, although Erimond throws up an arm to block that one, and then kicks him rather hard in the shin. He intends to retaliate, although at that point somebody grabs him by the shoulders and drags him back.

Somebody else is doing the same thing to Erimond. “Arrest him!” Erimond says. “He attacked me-- entirely unprovoked!”

Well, he can't let _that_ go unanswered. “This man has been stalking me for _weeks_.”

“Both of you,” says the woman holding Erimond in an impressively firm grip as he wriggles like a snake, “are disturbing the peace and can explain yourselves down at the station.”

Vishante _kaffas_ , Dorian thinks, and looking over at Erimond, at least can see that they on this one thing are in perfect agreement.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dorian Pavus is terrible at being arrested, I am sure this surprises nobody

Bull wouldn't say that anyone in his wider circle of acquaintances is not a law-abiding citizen, certainly not on record, anyway.

But he does recognise the number that flashes up on his phone, all the same. Little early for anybody to be stuck in the drunk tank, but there's plenty of possibilities besides that. Might be needing bail, might be just a pickup. Ah well, he's not got anything much on this afternoon, might as well help someone out and flirt with some cops on the side. Not that that ever goes anywhere, but he does like a strict woman. “Yep? Whatcha need.”

There is a a pause, and then a rush of words. “I'm _really_ sorry about this,” Dorian says, “I honestly didn't know who else to call, please don't hang up.”

“Not going anywhere,” Bull assures him. “What'd you get picked up for?”

“Disturbing the peace.” Dorian says. “I would like to point out that Erimond started it.”

Well, shit. No, this is okay. That might warrant a warning, a bit of time in a cell to cool your head, and maybe a fine, as long as nobody's too badly hurt and you don't piss the cops off. Aveline generally has more to worry about than a few scuffles, and he's pretty sure Dorian hasn't got any sort of record. “They give you a fine, or just a slap on the wrist and a telling off? I can spot you the cash if you need it.”

A very long pause. “They, uh, haven't decided yet. I might be held for the night.”

Warning bells go off in his head. “Please tell me you didn't talk back to the cops, Dorian.”

“They were being unreasonable!” Dorian responds, immediately. “It was very arguably nearly self-defence, anyway. I was being personally attacked by the existence of his ugly face in my vicinity.”

“ _I'm very sorry and it won't happen again_ tends to be a better line of argument.”

Dorian snorts down the phone. “Shades of detentions past. 100 lines, _I will not punch assholes in their faceholes_ , and I shan't be permitted to participate in Sports Day unless I apologise.”

He's getting the feeling this might be Dorian's first time being actually arrested. Unfortunately the first piece of advice that comes to mind is in Qunlat and really difficult to translate, and the second is likely to end up with Dorian hanging up on him in a temper.

“I imagine you're right, though, as much as I hate to admit it.” Dorian says, while he's still trying to think of a diplomatic way to phrase things. “I find other people being right exceedingly annoying. Do you think--”

He cuts off suddenly. There's a voice in the background, indistinct-- not loud enough to pick out words, and then Dorian's voice again, sounding surprised, _what? No, I didn't--_.

“Dorian?”

“I have to go.” he says, “Don't worry, I'll knock on your door when I get home, buy you a beer as an apology for bothering you or something.”

“Do you need me to pick you up?” Bull replies. “If you bus back, remember that the bus that goes from outside the station doesn't go direct, walk down to the post office and get the twelve--”

It is at this point he realises he's talking to a dead line.

Dorian's probably fine. He would have said, surely, if he needed anything.

It couldn't hurt, though, to just head over there and check things out, right?

* * *

The station entrance is much the same as usual, with the addition of a sharply-dressed man who might as well be wearing a sign around his neck saying _lawyer_ , pacing back and forth while talking loudly down his phone. “They're still doing the paperwork, like they were when you called me five minutes ago,” he's saying. A pause. “Yes, well, the amount you pay me doesn't actually make the wheels of Fereldan bureaucracy move any faster, although it does make me slightly more tolerant of you attempting to micromanage me from wherever it is you are right now.”

Bull side-steps him and heads to the front counter, where the officer behind the desk greets him with a nod. “Didn't think we had any of yours in today,” he says. “Who're you after?”

“Dorian Pavus.” Bull replies.

The officer doesn't even bother checking the system, just rolls his eyes. “He'll be out in a few minutes, I'm sure. Please take him, and his damn lawyer, while you're at it. Bloody nuisance.”

“What are you even _doing_ in Ostwick, other than cheesemongers?” the lawyer yells behind them, on cue. “What? I think the line is breaking up. Ferelden, you know. Terrible infrastructure. Can't hear you, so sorry, got to go.”

“You're causing a nuisance.” the officer says.

“And _you_ , ser, are complicit in aiding the nation of Tevinter in spreading oppression beyond her borders.” the lawyer returns, and then easily turns on his heel to face Bull. “Did my ears mistake me, or did I hear you mention the name Dorian Pavus just now?”

“I'm his neighbour.” Bull says, as there seems little point in denying that. Never lie when an incomplete truth will do. “Surprised you even heard that.”

“I bill an average of thirty-seven hours in any given twenty-four hour period, I can multitask. Elias Dryden.” he says, offering a business card so weighty he's half-surprised it's not engraved on solid metal. Bastien's business cards aren't even this fancy.

It also allows Elias Dryden to substitute the card for the handshake he obviously is trying to avoid, a slick little bit of sleight-of-hand he wouldn't have noticed if he wasn't trained for it. “The Iron Bull. Just thought he might want a lift home.” But also now wondering why Dorian would call him in a panic if he had this pricey-looking lawyer waiting in the wings.

“How kind of you. I'll have Marcine cancel the car.” Elias says. “Please have Dorian contact me if any more unwelcome visitors turn up, preferably before he commits any more entirely appropriate acts of self-defence. My direct line is on the card, in case he has misplaced it.”

Something about his smile is really setting Bull's teeth on edge. It's the fake pleasantry of someone who, given the option, would cross the road when he saw Bull coming, but obviously right now senses some greater benefit to be had from playing nice. “And who's picking up the bill?”

“Confidential.” Elias says, smile not faltering a moment. There is the harsh buzz of the door that leads back to the holding cells, and they both turn to see Dorian, accompanied by yet another officer, heading towards them. “Well, everything appears to be settled, so I'll leave this in your capable hands.” He even nearly manages to avoid glancing down to Bull's bad hand when he says it, too.

The officer accompanying Dorian is Cass, which normally means he'd get a few good flirts in, but one look at her face says maybe not today. Wordlessly, she marches Dorian up to the front desk, for the final bits of paperwork. It doesn't take very long. They must be eager to be rid of him.

“I'm your ride home.” he explains, when Dorian gives him a questioning look.

“Dryden left already? Not surprised.”

“You should be a little surprised. Isn't he your lawyer?”

Dorian laughs. “He's _Rilienus'_ lawyer. He once helped me with another small matter. A-- visa paperwork sort of thing.”

Another piece in the very strange puzzle that is Dorian Pavus. “Your friend's lawyer just happened to show up? You hadn't even been charged with anything, right?”

“For the money he's undoubtedly charging, he _ought_ to have mystical powers.” Dorian returns. “I'm just happy that I don't have to spend the night in there. Smells of damp and piss, and they didn't even keep Erimond in, he played the _wah wah my nose feels broken_ card. Bastard.”

“Well, I hope you've learnt something, at least.” Perhaps he should ask Sera to explain to Dorian the finer points of treading the line beyond which actual criminal charges are laid.

“Yes, yes. Don't punch people where there are witnesses.” Dorian says, and smirks at him like he's amused by his own cleverness.

“You're a real asshole sometimes, you know.”

“You're just realising this now?” Dorian tuts. “I figure my sparkling wit and dashing good looks make up for it.”

Something like that, yes. “Look, I already have beer in my fridge, so do you want to head back to mine? We can finish up that argument about the casting for the Serault mini-series.”

“We were _not_ having an argument, you were having wrong opinions and I was being kind enough to correct you. Also, you will insist on buying beer from one of Rocky's ubiquitous cousins, which means it will be off-brand Fereldan ale with Mabari themed names. Ghastly.” Dorian says, and then smiles. “I would be honoured to accept your invitation.”

_You_ , Krem had told him just last night, _are in way over your head_ , and Bull had denied it, the same way he had the last dozen times. As if he didn't know how to have sex without emotions mucking it all up.

Dorian offers his arm, as if Bull has just invited to escort him to the ball, and Bull thinks _Ah, shit_.

Krem's definitely going to say _I told you so_.


	16. Chapter 16

Bull doesn't say anything more about the situation Dorian managed to get himself into on the drive home, although he manages to give the impression he is Disappointed, all the same. It's somehow far more effective than all variants on that theme his parents have tried over the years, first on the topic of Brawling, Like Some Sort Of Thug, and then on the myriad of further ways he's found to disappoint since he hit puberty.

However, there seems little point in further apologising at this point, and Maker knows he has no interest in explaining exactly which dirty little insult it was that earned Erimond a well deserved fist in the face. Luckily, the distraction of discussing casting choices keeps them well away from any such topic, via a lovely detour into which Fake Tevinter Accent in popular media is, in fact, the worst and a quite interesting diversion into the politics of casting Vashoth actors in Tal-Vashoth roles.

Bull lights up when he lands on a topic he's interested in, his whole body engaged in the discussion, leaning in, hands in motion. Dorian wonders if it would be terrible etiquette, given the events of the day so far, to angle the conversation towards other whole-body activities.

Lately, The Iron Bull has taken to suggesting that all the way downstairs is rather far to go when there's a perfectly good bed that Dorian's already in.

Lately, Dorian's taken to agreeing with him, upon occasion, if only because The Iron Bull is very, very warm and Ferelden will insist on being so terribly cold.

Today, though, Rocky calls in the middle of their conversation and Dorian decides that perhaps it might be more sensible to invent a need for an early night, and let Bull send him home with some leftover lasagne. 

There is one thing he needs to do, after all. Namely, have a quick word with Rilienus about Coincidences, which are not a thing Dorian believes in.

_How exactly did your lawyer know I'd been arrested?_

Rilienus doesn't answer immediately. Dorian gets two thirds of the way through his lasagne before his phone buzzes. 

_how should I know?_  
_i don't ask the cleaners what sort of soap they use on the carpet_  
_in this metaphor the cleaners are lawyers_  
_the red wine is assault charges_

Well, that answers the question if Rilienus knew what had been going on or not, at least.  
_That is a terrible metaphor and I am asking if you told your lawyer to stalk me._

He doesn't have to wait for a response this time.  
_i never used those exact words_  
_it was in your best interest_  
_it's not my fault you won't accept help_  


Rilienus is trying to _help_. Oh, that's just fucking fantastic. He can _hear_ the petulant tone, too, the way Rilienus gets when Dorian won't play along.

_I do not need help, Rilienus.  
That has been the entire point this entire time._

A slightly longer pause, this time.

_at least promise you'll call elias if you do need help_  
_he's gotten really frigid since he got married but he's good at lawyering_  
_promise and i'll tell him not to bother you unless you call him first_

How many times does he have to say it before it works its way through Rilienus' skull?  
_I don't need help._

_your da is keeping very poor company lately_  
_think of it as leveling the playing field_  
_also as the important work of keeping me entertained_  
_father sent me to shaft a guy over mining rights_  
_all work and no play etc etc_  


Well, at least once more, clearly. _I don't need help, Rilienus._

_you're ignoring my brilliant pun_  
_also, which is better, one large cheese or many small cheeses_  
_for context the large cheese is very large_  
_also if you let a porn star drive you home you can let your BEST FRIEND give you a lawyer which i did out of love don't be a hypocrite_  


Well, fuck. _These things are not functionally the same._

_i hope you gave him a thank-you fuck it would only be polite_  
_and you know a novelty for him to get paid in sex rather than for it_  
_you fucking liar_

He has very little hope that Rilienus will accept his next argument, but he might as well try it anyway.

_I don't owe you a blow-by-blow of my sex-life, Ril_

_SINCE WHEN?_  
_WHO MADE THAT RULE?_  
_i tell you everything because i am a very honest person_  
_i can't believe i bought you a large cheese and also many small cheeses_  


Why, precisely, had Dorian thought trying to have a sensible discussion with Rilienus was a good idea? Why does he _ever_?

_I am going to finish my dinner now._

_FINE WHATEVER_  
_there are like a dozen really fuckable dwarves at the other end of this bar_  
_i'm going to have sex with them all_  
_so when he breaks your heart don't come crying to me_  
_because as previously stated i will be busy having a lot of sex_

This is nearly immediately followed by a poorly-lit selfie of Rilienus pressing his face up against a slightly confused-looking but certainly handsome dwarven gentleman. Well, at least it will keep him occupied so that Dorian can finish his lasagne.

Nobody's heart is getting broken, so he's not even going to bother to respond to that accusation. 

Ugh, what a mess. Perhaps if he has a quiet word with Rilienus' lawyer the man will see some sort of sense. Although he'll probably charge Rilienus by the hour for the conversation and then Rilienus will think he's won. Not to mention that Dorian can't actually afford to pay for the man's services and he still doesn't know exactly what Erimond will do next-- or what his father might.

Out of his available choices, suffering through the ridiculous text messages that will be the price of being in Rilienus' debt is probably not the worst one. Probably his main plan should be to not punch Erimond in the face the next time he turns up, but-- well, it would probably be good to have a backup plan, just in case it turns out he really has to.

At least, with Rilienus safely over in Tevinter and pretending he doesn't know how to find Ferelden on a map, he's easier to deal with. The phone has gone quiet, too. Fingers crossed, Rilienus has found a source of sufficiently exciting sex that he'll forget to be far too interested in Dorian's love-life, at least for the next little while.

Just as he's thinking this, his phone buzzes with yet another incoming message. Spoke too soon, perhaps.

Oh. 

It's from Bull.

_Look what Rocky found! We match! Can you believe somebody just left this sweetheart by the side of the road?_

This is accompanied by a photograph of Bull in what is presumably Rocky's housecradling what has to be the _ugliest_ one-eyed cat in existence.

_Adorable. No pets allowed in the apartments though, right?_

His answer is a series of sad emojis.  
_The guys are asking around. One of Skinner's friends might take her._

Dorian smiles at his phone. Of course Bull would be upset at not being able to adopt the world's ugliest cat. _I am sure you can request visitation rights. Remember to apply disinfectant when she scratches your face off, am--_

He stops before he accidentally types the rest, although the autocomplete hangs there mockingly for a few more moments unless he erases it. Honestly, his hands seem to be trying to get him into trouble at every turn lately.

_Remember to apply disinfectant when she scratches your face off. I'm going to bed._


	17. Chapter 17

There's another picture of the terrible cat when he wakes up, accompanied by _good night!_. By the light of day, the thing looks even _mangier_ , somehow. Its fleas surely have fleas.

He doesn't respond to Bull immediately, because he has more immediate concerns, in the form of a text message from Elias Dryden asking him to call _at his earliest convenience_. Well, at least it's an opening to ask Dryden to stop assisting Rilienus in his long-range interference attempts.

“How good of you to call,” Dryden says, the moment his secretary connects the line. “For informational purposes only, and nothing to do with either of us, of course, it appears a countryman of yours is about to depart Ferelden. It would seem he might have not been entirely truthful on his visa application, such a shame, amazing the things one finds when one digs around a little.”

It's not that it's not good news. It's that there's too much of a shade there of his father's lawyers, making problems _go away_. “You don't have to keep doing this,” Dorian tells him. “Thank you, but I will not be requiring further assistance.”

“Oh, I rather do.” Dryden replies. “My daughter is two months away from her third birthday and my husband is already stockpiling extremely glossy brochures from extremely exclusive schools, so your terrible boyfriend's exasperating but highly profitable requests are actually rather a boon.”

“I am not dating Rilienus.”

“Have you told him that?” Dryden says. “Please don't, I'm billing him for hours I spent watching pornography as _background checks_. My recommendation would be to try and steer him towards gifts that have resale value. In related news you need to come by my office, a courier just turned up with a very large delivery of cheese which appears to be addressed to you.”

What did Rilienus do, pay extra for _overnight cheese shipping_? Probably. “Can't you just-- donate it to charity, or something?”

“What, and miss your reaction to the very heartfelt, but also cheese-themed, accompanying card?” Dryden says. Dorian can hear him smirking down the phone. “Indulge me. Throw a fondue party, or something. While you're at it, let me give you advice on applying for your permanent residency and charge Rilienus triple for it. What's the harm?”

Given that Dorian has witnessed Stitches try and fit an entire wheel of deep-fried cheese into his mouth, and Rocky succeed at the same manoeuvre, he suspects he could manage to find a method of disposal for however much cheese it is Rilienus has decided he needs. It might even be a wise move, to butter up Bull's friends with gifts of foodstuffs. “I will consider it.” he says, and hangs up on whatever smarmy remark Dryden has lined up.

Next, back to his phone to text Rilienus.

_You were serious about the cheese?_

_its whimsical_  
_being more whimsical is my new life resolution_  
_i met a guy who wrote a book about it_  
_gives sloppy blowjobs but his philosophy is solid_  
_do you like it though?_

_Dryden just informed me of the existence of said gift, so I currently have no opinion other than wondering what you were thinking when you sent me cheese._ Rilienus is fond of throwing his money around, so this isn't the first inappropriate gift Dorian has had to deal with, but it is certainly the first time Rilienus' expressions of friendship involved dairy products. 

_you keep saying no to all the usual sort of presents like jewellery or flowers or jetskiis_

Oh sweet Maker, to think he'd nearly forgotten about the Jetskiis Incident. _I am entirely sure your intentions were pure. Please stop._

_not 100% pure, where would the fun in that be?_

He knows what's about to happen, when he sees the next incoming message is in picture form. There are only two forms of photography Rilienus has any real interest in: the selfie, and the dick pic.

Well, that's definitely enough trying to talk sense with or into Rilienus for one day. Ignoring him for a few hours will be punishment enough; perhaps Dorian should go see how ridiculous a number of cheeses he's been sent.

He looks speculatively up at the ceiling. Perhaps Bull could be convinced to give him a lift in return for thank-you cheese. Also perhaps 'I'm very sorry you had to come to the police station because I lost my temper and punched an asshole even if he did deserve it' cheese. Several cheeses might be required for that last, he suspects.

Apology cheese. He has a terrible feeling he might be going native.

* * *

It takes an unusually long time for Bull to answer the door, and when he does it's only a sliver. “Oh. Hi. Sorry, not the best time.”

He's only wearing boxer shorts and Dorian could kick himself, because of course, Bull has a _visitor_. Really, he can hardly expect the man to be available at every convenient moment. At least whoever it is was somewhat more subtle than the last time, he doesn't recall hearing any caterwauling through the ceiling. “My apologies, I should have texted you first. It's not important, I'll catch you later.”

There is, at this moment, a quite loud noise from the general direction of Bull's bedroom. Specifically, something _yowls_ , there's no other word for it. Bull looks exceedingly guilty. “Maybe you should come in.”

“Pets aren't allowed.” Dorian points out.

“Technically, pets aren't allowed _without permission_ ,” Bull replies, carefully shutting the door behind him, “and also it was an emergency. Guimauve didn't have anywhere else to go, so I've taken her on temporarily.”

“ _Guimauve_ ,” Dorian says, “doesn't sound very happy about the situation.” Guimauve, really? He might have expected it from someone who apparently chose to call himself _The Iron Bull_ , but Bull's naming sense is really something else.

“I had to give her a bath.” Bull says. “I don't think I've been forgiven yet. She's so pretty, though. Want to see?”

Well, since he did come here to ask a favour, it would seem churlish to say no. “Go on, then.”

Bull leads him to the bedroom, wherein a tabby cat is sitting in the exact centre of the bed, looking judgemental. To be fair, the bath does appear to have improved matters quite a bit, although she's rather thin and scraggly. Hardly about to win any beauty contests, but at least she doesn't look like she's carrying too many diseases.

Naturally, instead of responding to Bull's soft coaxing, the cat jumps off the bed and heads straight for Dorian. Cats are the most contrary creatures in the universe, which is one reason Dorian's secretly quite fond of them. “These are new jeans.” he informs her. “There will be no scratching.”

Guimauve looks up at him and gives an absolutely pathetic yowl, then flops onto her side in front of his feet. He's not made of stone, so he crouches to rub her head. Huh. She's actually quite soft.

“Aww, you're making friends!” Bull croons, somewhere above him.

“If I get fleas I'm blaming you.” Dorian informs him, sternly. “And you, you ghastly monster.” he informs the cat.

Guimauve purrs.

* * *

Having spent some time inspecting Bull's cat supplies, just to be sure he knows what he's doing and not because Dorian cares about that terrible beast, he forgets to ask about getting a lift to Dryden's office until Bull looks at his phone and says “ _Shit_ , I'm going to be late if I don't get going.”

Well, Dryden can charge Rilienus a cheese storage fee or something, Dorian supposes. He'll ask later. “I suppose I should head in to the university library.” In theory he can work at home but in practice he finds he gets more done when surrounded by a larger number of books. Fond memories of Alexius' personal library, perhaps, or slightly less fond ones of barricading himself into the library at home after yet another argument with his father.

Having managed to convince Guimauve to vacate his lap, he heads back to his own apartment to remove the cat hair from his clothing and generally fix himself up. His plans for the rest of the day might involve hiding in the back corner of a library, but he has _standards_. Once he's fit to be seen in public, ideally artfully posed next to a bookshelf looking pensive and intellectual, he heads downstairs. As he heads out the front door, an elf, smiling blandly, moves as if to catch the door before it can close.

Dorian's seen a television show about scam artists, and also is feeling rather paranoid lately, so he blocks the elf's path and deliberately lets the door close behind him. “Residents only, I'm afraid. Can I help you?”

The smile drops off the elf's face immediately. He gives Dorian a long and not particularly friendly look. “I doubt it.”

“You're friends with someone in the building, or something?” Dorian tries, because he doesn't want to be rude. Well, maybe a little, but this guy started it.

“Friends.” The elf snorts. “No. I once knew somebody who lives here.”

Well, isn't that a fascinating use of tenses. At least he doesn't seem to be a likely agent of Erimond, or Dorian's father, so that's a sort of relief. “We've had a few issues with security.” he says, which isn't untrue, since Erimond getting into the building definitely counts. “I'd suggest not loitering if you don't have any business with one of the residents.”

The elf shrugs. “No business. Just passing by.”

Then he pulls his coat around him and hurries off down the street, leaving Dorian to wonder what the fuck _that_ was all about. Perhaps he should mention it to Bull later, he seems to know everything and everyone within about a five mile radius.

But first, to make it to the bus stop before this bloody wind ruins his hair.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oops I got spy drama in the porn star au

He would have liked to hang around and watch Dorian fuss over Guimauve some more, because that was adorable, but he does have to go to work. There's no reason for him to hesitate as he walks out of the front entrance, despite the fact that there's a van claiming to belong to a scaffolding company parked around the corner that he's walked past three days in a row on the way to his van.

Thing is, there's no scaffolding around here, and given that Rocky's been hired and fired by every such outfit within the city limits, you'd think he'd recognise the name on the side, but he doesn't. There's something familiar about that set up, like a phantom itch, that makes him nervous.

If it is what he thinks, standards have gone down since he left the Ben-Hassrath, clearly. Far too easy for him to identify.

What really makes the back of his neck itch is that he doesn't know _why_. It's not as if he's done anything to make them think he's slipping old secrets, and the ones he does know are so old by now that he's not sure they'd be worth anything anyway. When he was fresh out? Sure, that was a good month for not sleeping too heavily, but once that first token attack came and went, he knew.

The Qun has wiped its hands of him, like any other dirt.

He puts it out of his mind for the morning shoot. There's something calmly mechanical about working from a script. It doesn't require the concentration of the real world, especially today as his partners are both long-time professionals who have no compunctions about whispering sweet nothings in his ear like “Hold up, I'm going to chafe before we get the money shot at this rate.”

He grabs a roast beef sandwich for lunch-- partly because Isabela always enjoys making comments about beef sandwiches-- and heads back to the dressing room.

“Somebody managed to sneak a gift for you through security.” Isabela says, pointing at a beribboned box on his chair. “If it's chocolate tits again, I'll take them off your hands. I'm willing to make that sacrifice for you.”

The tag on the top says _To the one who puts stars in my eyes_ , which would be a charming sentiment if it wasn't also a old code-phrase in a very familiar handwriting. Dammit, he's told Gatt time and again he needs to work on varying his hand more.

Underneath the lid, as if the handwriting wasn't clue enough, chocolate-coconut guimauves nestled in little individual pink cases. Also, in the pink silk lining of the case, a memory card which he pockets, out of habit, before showing the contents to Isabela. “No tits, sorry.”

“Marshmallows are basically candy tits anyway. Soft, pillowy, and I always want more of them.” Isabela replies, and grabs one out of the box.

He doesn't even think of stopping her. Gatt has always thought of poison as a coward's game, and the guimauves are a-- open hand, more than anything else. A starting offer.

The question is, what does he expect in return?

* * *

The afternoon shoot wraps up early, every take right first time, so he can get back and see what's been handed over. Probably, if he was sensible, he'd destroy it and not even look. It's long past the time when anything on there would be any of his business.

He looks.

Somebody has been busy, certainly. He'd been vaguely aware that Dorian's father must have been in a pretty good position, because that's the sort of asshole who hires other assholes to chase your kid across an entirely different country, but here's the details of his political and financial links, here are a few names he recognises-- ah, there's the friend Dorian keeps mentioning, heir to one of those conglomerates, and from that he can--

He realises that he's laying all this information out in his head in a certain way, an old habit. Hissrad's habit, not The Iron Bull's. There's no reason for him to know any of this, or to care. Dorian's walked away from his old life, in search of something better, and his past is his own story to tell.

When he closes the files down, a little window pops up, with an address.

There's no reason to go see what it is.

* * *

The place is a salvage yard of sorts, a couple of customers hanging around outside examining stacks of reclaimed tiles and haphazardly dumped garden furniture. He ducks his head as he enters, and goes to stand in a far corner, pretending to look at the stuff on the walls. Actually, Rocky might like some of it. There's an old shop sign that just says BEER, rusting around the edges, and beneath it, a busted pinball machine.

He would consider coming back to do some shopping later, if the entirely place wasn't clearly a Ben-Hassrath front.

“There's some more things in the stockroom, if you wanted a look,” an elven woman says to him, in passing. She's wearing a dusty black apron, carrying a wooden box covered in fake gems, and holds herself like she'd much rather be carrying a sniper rifle.

“Sure.” he says, and lets her herd him through a door and down a narrow corridor to a second.

Naturally, Gatt is on the other side. They both wait, silently, while the woman closes the door behind her as she heads back out onto the floor. “Kind of against regulations, to deliberately bring a Tal Vashoth into one of your bases of operations, isn't it?”

Gatt glares. “Apologies for trying to help out an old _friend_ , who is also an idiot who sticks his dick places it shouldn't go. Did you even read the information? Pavus is linked to Pacenti, whose daddy's company has its fingers in everything that's terrible but technically legal in Tevinter, and if you really think there's nothing suspicious in him turning up in your building then you've been out of the game too long.”

He knows that Gatt is Ben-Hassrath trained and part of that involves a finely tuned sense of paranoia, but this is taking it to new and interesting levels. “Dorian's not some sort of Tevinter _plant_ , Gatt. He happened to end up in my building. I happen to like the guy. Things happen.”

“Coincidence is a fairy-tale for children. You taught me that. Tevinters sniffing around one of the Ben-Hassrath's finest? Not a coincidence.”

He shakes his head. “Not the Ben-Hassrath's anything anymore, Gatt. When you're out, you're out. You know that.”

“The _circumstances_ \--” Gatt says, voice hitching, and then he takes a moment, and reigns it back in, “--were exceptional. I could make them see that, you know. We could find a way. It could be like it was.”

* * *

He remembers how it was. Crammed into one of those vans, last minute checks before the operation started. Gatt, rounding his shoulders, pulling a hat low. “Time to go play Timid Elf Delivery Boy. You better all be ready when I give the signal.”

“That feels like it was aimed at me.” Vasaad replies.

“The Akhaaz Incident.” Everyone chimes in.

“You were _literally_ caught with your pants down.” Gatt adds. “Idiot.”

“One time,” Vasaad points out, as Gatt slides the van door open and slips out, “one single time! Anyway, this job will be a cinch, don't worry.”

“I won't, but only because Hissrad is here to stop you doing anything stupid.” Gatt says, and slams the door shut with relish.

The weird part is, he doesn't remember thinking anything much of the exchange, at the time. Just Gatt, chafing at the bit, wanting a bigger part in things no matter how many times Hissrad tried to explain how important his role as infiltrator was. Just Vasaad, shrugging off any suggestion of danger with his fool's grin. Just the usual.

Just all of them, expecting Hissrad to keep them safe.

Just all of them, not aware of how badly he was about to fail them.

* * *

“You don't believe that.” Bull tells him. “No matter how much you want to.”

“You always acted like you could save everybody.” Gatt says bitterly. “Who's going to save you from yourself?”

“This isn't an official operation, is it.” Bull says, at a guess. “The Ben-Hassrath don't really care what I do.”

Gatt shrugs. “I'm here to collect information. Beyond that my orders are-- not particularly restrictive. The higher ups may not see anything to worry about in all this, but I know you better. I especially know what you look like when you're getting too emotionally involved.”

“I'm going to go now.” Bull tells him. “You go back to whatever you were doing, and we never contact each other again. How does that sound?”

He turns sharply and goes for the door without waiting for an answer. There is too much history for him and Gatt, and his concern, however misguided, is like a strange tight band around his chest. He failed. He left. He doesn't expect Gatt to ever be able to forgive that.

“You look at him like you used to look at Vasaad.” Gatt says as a parting shot. “Like a constipated qalaba.”

Nobody stops him on the way out. He pauses for a moment outside, to catch his thoughts. A tiny buzz from his pocket.

It's a message from Dorian.

_I don't suppose I could ask a favour of you?_

Just one friend to another. Whatever Gatt thinks he's seeing, he's wrong. _Sure_ , he replies. _Ask away._


	19. Chapter 19

Thankfully, Bull is both amenable to the idea of lending his van and to the concept of being recompensed for his kind assistance in cheese and/or cheese themed memorabilia and/or possibly wine, on the off-chance Rilienus actually stopped to think about what Dorian would actually want during his gifting spree.

He misses really good wine. In a strange way it seems more expensive when there's actually a price tag on it, and the range on offer in the local establishments is _pitiful_ even if he was inclined to splurge, and besides, who would he drink it with? Wine needs to be drunk in company, after all-- terribly difficult to have witty repartee with oneself.

He's still working on getting Josie to invite him to one of the alumni fundraising soirées she seems to be constantly organising. Small talk in exchange for free wine and tiny foodstuffs is a very appetising deal, and the wonderful thing about Dorian is he's a great addition to _any_ gathering, so really it would be win-win, but apparently Josie has not yet realised this obvious truth.

Dryden's office is decorated expensively in a very formulaic and familiar way. It's as if every lawyer's office in Thedas orders out of the same catalogue. Plush carpet in a colour even Dorian knows would be a pain in the ass to keep clean, check. Abstract glass sculpture, check. Vaguely terrifying Orlesian receptionist whose default expression is 'Judging You Right Now', check.

Said receptionist efficiently shuffles them into a meeting room, presumably to keep them out of sight of other clients, and then disappears without even the customary offering of tea, or perhaps something a little stronger.

Well, whatever. It's not as if Dorian intends to stay longer than necessary to claim his unnecessary gift of cheese (honestly, Rilienus) and depart.

Beside him, Bull shifts, lays one hand on one of the elegant but not exactly qunari-sized chairs the room is supplied with, and then seems to think better of any actual attempts at sitting. “So.” he says. “I'm guessing you have a reason you don't want this friend of yours to know your home address.”

How he got to that startlingly accurate deduction from _I need your help to pick up some cheese from a lawyer's office_ , Dorian is not sure. Denying it would seem foolish, though. “It's complicated.”

Bull doesn't question that non-explanation, precisely. “So if I see anyone from Tevinter hanging around the building, should I tell them you've moved to Ostagar to take up mining?”

Really? Bull ought to know by now that there is no dwarf in existence muscular enough to make Dorian put up with a life centred around _rocks_. “Ugh, no. Please make up a better lie, like that I've moved to Orlais to take up residence with a handsome winemaker or two.”

“Twins?”

“Why not? Besotted with me, of course.”

“Naturally. Can't imagine country life suiting you though, somehow.”

“I will struggle through, for love. Also wine.” There is, in fact, a terribly soppy Antivan drama with more or less this storyline except for some reason, assassins, but while Dorian might have admitted to watching Bull's porn and to enjoying the collected works of Frederic Serault, he draws the line at ever admitting he has been aware of so much as the concept of _Antivan romantic dramas_.

After a moment more, Dryden appears, trailed by a young man in an extremely well-fitting suit clutching a large box of presumable cheese, which he hefts onto the table and then immediately turns on his heel and leaves. “So very glad you could make it,” Dryden says. “I did try to explain to _certain people_ that I am neither a mail forwarding service nor a cheese storage warehouse, but--”

But then Rilienus waved around a large amount of money and Dryden changed his mind, presumably. “That's actually... not as bad as I thought it might be.”

“There are two more boxes,” Dryden says, “so it was wise of you to bring some muscle. Also there's this.”

The envelope he holds out is labelled 'Riri ♥ ', and Dryden's smirk is bad enough-- before Bull can see it he very hurriedly shoves it into his messenger bag amongst the papers he's supposed to be reading, somewhere between the very dry one on funeral iconography during the reign of Archon Tidarion and the wildly incorrect one with all the lurid hypotheses about blood sacrifices. “Yes, well, thank you for your time and all that.”

“I also took the liberty of putting together this informational package for you,” Dryden adds, proffering a thick cream envelope, “in case you should consider using our services for future interactions with Fereldan bureaucracy. Do feel free. Now, if you will excuse me, I have another appointment.”

He gives Dorian a short, sharp bow in place of a handshake, given that Dorian's hands are full of unwanted paperwork, and leaves without another word, nearly running into the young man returning with the _second_ box.

“Just one more?” Bull says, taking it off him. In answer to the silent, wide-eyed nod, he adds “Could you bring it to the entrance of the building? I'll take these two. Thanks.”

True to his word, he piles the second box on top of the first, lifting them together with apparent ease. Dorian's fairly sure he could carry _one_ , at least, but he isn't opposed to the view. “I'll get the door, shall I?”

“Yeah,” Bull says, with a grin. “Let's get out of this shithole.”

He think he sees the young man stifle a smile before he runs off to fetch the remaining box. “I thought you'd never ask.”

* * *

They bring the boxes up to Dorian's apartment for what Bull will insist on calling The Grand Cheese Unveiling. The first he opens reveal a jumble of packing peanuts in which are nestled are a frankly stupid number of small hard cheeses, each with fanciful names like The Ostwick Extraordinary or Kirkwall Poacher.

“I'm going to make so much soufflé.” Bull says happily, clutching several to his chest. “Can I have these?”

“Feel free.” Dorian says. It's good _somebody_ knows what to do with large amounts of weird Free Marcher cheese, because he certainly doesn't. The second box contains a hamper of cheese-related items-- a serving platter and knife, enough crackers to build a scale model of Minrathous out of, a jar of fig jam, and, most wonderfully, a bottle of red. Dorian lifts it reverently from its cellophane surrounds. “I might consider forgiving Rilienus for the cheese. Even if this _is_ Orlesian.” Although, had Rilienus not considered just sending a crate of this, and skipping the cheese entirely? Dorian does wonder about the way his mind works sometimes.

In the meantime, Bull has set aside his selection of small weird cheeses and moved onto the third box. He brushes away more packing peanuts and then stops. “Uh, Dorian?”

Dorian carefully sets his wine aside and leans over.

Ah.

He'd forgotten that Rilienus had mentioned _a large cheese_ being part of his gift selection. This would certainly fit the bill. It takes up most of the box. “What am I supposed to do with a cheese that could double as a blunt weapon?”

“It would probably work as a shield, too.” Bull points out. “Looks about thick enough to stop a knife. Also, your obvious answer is _cheese party_.”

“I am not going to point out that that is not a thing, in favour of allowing the ravenous horde you call friends to deal with this ridiculous cheese situation.” Or just Rocky and a few of his endless cousins would probably do the job.

“Hey, they're your friends too.” Bull says, which Dorian thinks might be a slight exaggeration. He gets along well enough with Stitches, has learnt when to not accept drinks from Rocky, and Skinner doesn't do that thing where she tries to startle him very much these days. He's even had a discussion with Krem in which they commiserated over the various foodstuffs of Tevinter you simply cannot find down here.

Certainly, they seem to have accepted him as a semi-regular fixture in The Iron Bull's bed, and by extension, on his sofa during pizza nights. Friends might be pushing it. “Either way, they will be more than welcome. Save me from the cheese avalanche.”

“Your friend realises this is ridiculous, right?”

“Of course he doesn't.” Dorian considers the amount of cheese surrounding him. “Extravagant gift-giving is quite the thing among the circles I used to move in. Besides, there's some historical context you may not be aware of.”

“Historical, or horizontal?” Bull asks, and doesn't even look ashamed when Dorian throws the nearest cheese at him. A small one, he might mention, and he doesn't throw it that hard. Bull just adds it to 'his' cheese pile. “Look, it's pretty obvious you used to date him, or something.”

“Or something.” Dorian informs him, because dating would have been something far simpler and also involve implications of some form of public commitment. “You really want to know? It's not that interesting a story.”

“Sure,” Bull says, “if it's a story you're willing to tell.”

Dorian considers how much and how to tell him. “Well, we certainly fooled around plenty when we were younger-- yes, yes, all the rumours about boarding schools are true-- but it only ever got serious after I'd graduated from the University of Minrathous. I was by that point entirely sick of Tevinter in general and my father's plans to marry me off to the daughter of some business partner of his in particular, and spending most of my time considering escape routes. My original plan was to apply to UVR, and Rilienus was nothing but encouraging. He offered up his apartment, said he'd convince his father they needed to expand their business in Orlais so he could be there with me. We spent months discussing it.”

“I'm sensing a _but_.” Bull says.

“Yes, well. It seemed that although we agreed to the general outline, the details of our plans varied somewhat. I thought Rilienus would break off his engagement, come with me. I'd gotten as far as considering the outfits we'd wear for our dramatic confrontation with our parents.”

“Matching?”

“Don't be foul, of course not.” Really, what does Bull think of him. “There was going to be _subtle coordination_. At any rate, these idle daydreams were rather spoiled when I found out that Rilienus' vision of our future did not involve anything of the sort, and in fact mostly rested upon the concept that _foreign adultery isn't real adultery_. I really wish that wasn't a direct quote.”

“So you told him to fuck off?”

“A succinct description of what was actually over an hour of screaming at each other and then a few weeks of bickering via text message because neither of us could let it rest.” Until Rilienus had moved on, by which Dorian means he'd gone on a business trip to Orlais, spent most of it sending childish messages about who he was fucking, and by this means helpfully finally gotten it through to Dorian that the idiot was him, for ever thinking Rilienus could be convinced to settle down in the first place. 

Not that Rilienus had actually moved on, as in stopped trying to convince Dorian that happiness could yet be found in a serviced apartment in Val Royeaux and a relationship that would continue as long as Rilienus' wife continued to ignore anything that went on outside Tevinter.

“Pretty sure I've said this before, but he sounds kind of terrible.”

Yes, yes, everyone keeps telling Dorian this as if he doesn't know very well all the terrible bits of Rilienus' personality, in great detail. “Once he sent me a dick pic when he knew I was at my grandfather's funeral, with a pun about stiffs attached, and then complained that I didn't immediately text him back.” Dorian says. “And once or twice he's come through for me when I didn't think anybody would. So yes, he's awful, but I don't want to hear you tell me that. Especially when you've already selected your gift cheese.”

“Sorry.” Bull says. “I'll lay off. I just think you deserve something good, you know? A proper romance. Some guy smart enough to know how lucky he'd be to have you.”

“I know well enough I deserve only the best.” Dorian retorts. “Everyone has at least one shitty ex story, I might text him on occasion, but we are _never_ getting back together, the end. Your turn.”

“Huh?”

“Your shitty ex story, and no fobbing me off with stories involving fans who send you chocolate body parts. I'm _sharing_ here, and I'm not even drunk, so you have to return the favour. Those are the rules.”

“Don't really have one.” Bull says, rubbing one of his horns.

“Are you really going to tell me that everyone you've ever dated, you've parted on with good terms?” Actually, Dorian supposes he can sort of see that. Bull is ridiculously good-natured. He probably sends them all Wintersend cards with handwritten messages of seasonal good-will or something.

Bull's eyes slide down to rest somewhere around Dorian's knees. “Don't really date. The Qun doesn't-- it's sort of like hunger. The body needs something, you give it what it needs, you move on.”

“As much as I am enjoying the implication that there are all-you-can-eat sex buffets in Par Vollen,” Dorian says, because he really, really is going to come back to that thought later, “I was lead to believe you had left all that behind.”

Bull's gaze does not lift. If anything, Dorian thinks it slides further down. “That's not what people around here want from me, y'know?”

Dorian gets the feeling that this line of questioning may have been a mistake. Not that he'd intended to pry-- well, he _had_ intended to pry, yes, but not in a way that made anybody feel uncomfortable. He probably ought to say something here-- not _I want that from you_ , he's far too sober for that sort of honesty, but something good, something like what Felix would say in this situation. Felix has the knack for saying things that make other people say _thanks, that really helps_ , which Dorian has always envied.

While he's considering whether _you deserve something good, too_ would be too corny and if some sort of friendly side-hug would be appropriate, Bull speaks again.

“His name was Vasaad.” he says, eyes now focused somewhere on the stained carpet between them. “We worked together. He was a terrible klutz and he'd crack jokes at the worst possible times and he could work miracles with leftovers. Thought he ought to have been a cook, really. He's dead now.”

Fuck, he's fucked up, this definitely requires Felix-level stores of empathy to deal with. “I'm sorry,” Dorian settles on, eventually, because at least that sort of covers _for your loss_ and _for pushing you into talking about this_ , even if it's not exactly a greatly original answer.

Then, Bull looks straight at him again, and it's like he's somehow pushed all the pain off to one side somewhere. He deposits his cheeses into the smaller of the empty boxes, stands up. “Nah, you're fine. Long time ago, anyway. Look, I better get back and feed Guimauve, I'll let you know when I'm making up the souffle. And I'll see if anybody wants to volunteer to host that cheese party.”

“It'll end up being at yours.” Dorian says, because despite recent evidence to the contrary, he's not a total fool.

“Probably.” Bull replies, easy. He pauses on the threshold, just a moment, and then he's gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Would like to know more about the sort of shenanigans Rilienus gets up to in his spare time through the medium of Reddit posts by his many and various exes?
> 
> Then you should read [r/OurMutualEx](http://archiveofourown.org/works/13262367/chapters/30342342), and if you've already read it, go read it again. It's great. It's really great. Rilienus is a terrible person, I'm so happy, iodhadh is a gift and the best three dwarves in a trenchcoat I've ever met.


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i refuse to apologise. you'll see what for when you get to the end.

He doesn't know why he said any of that.

It's kind of been eating at him, ever since the name came out of Gatt's mouth. He _likes_ Dorian, yeah, he's a good guy. Likes him probably a bit too much, and is probably going to feel it too much when Dorian finds some nice guy to settle down with and doesn't require him anymore.

But Vasaad had been Kadan.

Never said anything about it. If Vasaad had known, he'd never said anything either. At minimum, it was against protocol to keep them in the same squad-- he should have confessed his feelings to his superiors, let them reassign Vasaad before he got in too deep.

But in his foolishness, he'd thought: if I do that, then who's going to protect that idiot?

So instead: treading the edge of the allowable. Gatt, rolling his eyes, settling down by the window with a pack of cards, or Ashaad, silently cleaning his already immaculate equipment, keeping company so if the question is asked then, no, no particular breach of rules written or unwritten to report.

They weren't doing anything in particular, anyway. Just talking. Just Vasaad, losing game after game of chess because he was an idiot without the patience for real strategy and then finally, cornering Hissrad with a copy of field regulations with some very specific paragraphs highlighted.

Turned out Vasaad had the patience for strategy after all, given the right motivations.

Then he'd up and died, and Hissrad had been unmade, re-made, sent away and then came unravelled again, and since there wasn't even anybody about who would understand the word Kadan, the shape that it had been between them, he'd let the thing go unspoken.

Dorian's not at all like Vasaad. Well, perhaps little in the impulse, the knack for doing or speaking before thinking and then regretting at leisure. Perhaps a little in the smile, although he couldn't say where, exactly. Definitely in the sharpness of wit. In the intensity of his gaze, when he's focused on something. When he's focused on Bull in particular.

Absolutely alike, regarding these feelings suddenly come out of nowhere and smack him upside the head, but he can wait them out. Even Vasaad's death, which had felt at the time like getting the legs cut out from under him, has faded with time. A faint scar, an old ache.

He'll go to sleep. He'll wake up. He'll go to work. Tide goes in, tide goes out. This will pass.

Right?

* * *

“This is the _most_ Altus story I have ever heard.” Krem says, and Dorian can't even argue with him. Especially since he's brought a keg of cider to the cheese party and it would seem slightly churlish, all things considered, like the fact that Dorian's holding a full glass of the stuff and it's actually not bad.

“Does he like dwarves?” Rocky asks. His contribution to the party supplies is a box containing a large number of crackers which, for reasons Dorian is not going to consider, has the warning _may contain nug_ stamped on the side. “I could put up with a lot for this much cheese.”

“Rilienus does not, generally speaking, limit himself.” Dorian informs him. “But there's no way I'm introducing him to you. If you attend a sufficient number of charity yacht cruises, I'm sure you could arrange to meet him eventually.”

Stitches chokes on a mouthful of beer at this point and the conversation is thankfully diverted by various people 'helping' him by whacking him on the back until he grabs a loaf of mildly stale bread to fight them off with. Apparently it's still fine if you toast it, which is a piece of information Dorian's going to pretend he knew all along.

Other ingredients for the cheese party include a fondue pot (Dalish), a startling variety of knives which he's not sure were all originally intended for the cutting of cheese (Skinner) and a range of homemade chutney (Stitches). Bull, for his part, is in the kitchen churning out toasted cheese sandwiches like it's his job, and honestly it possibly could be, Dorian would pay good money for these.

“Your new boyfriend not coming, Stitches?” Krem asks.

“He has choir on Tuesdays, and also I like him, why would I subject him to you lot?” Stitches says.

“If he's seen you naked,” Rocky says, helping himself to another pint of cider, “I'm not sure anything we could do would drive the poor fool away.”

“Some of us have relationships which don't require humping each other in the parking lot on the first date. Have a little thought for romance.” Stitches replies.

“That happened _once_ , and I was literally dressed as a rose at the time. That's romance right there.” Rocky retorts. “Hot, pulsating romance.”

Skinner throws a cheese at him, and Dorian ducks into the kitchen to avoid the resulting chaos. “Thanks for hosting. And for the toasted sandwiches, which are _excellent_.”

“When life gives you lemons, make lemonade.” Bull says. He doesn't turn from the stove, where he is fiddling with the settings for the-- grill? It's almost certainly the grill. That's probably not the point. The point is that Dorian is right here, having 'just thrown on' his tightest, most threadbare t-shirt after far too much time considering what outfit one wears to a _cheese party_ , and Bull has barely looked at him, let alone talked to him or anybody else for the past hour. There haven't even been any cheese-related puns.

“Wrong yellow foodstuff, but reasonably apt, I suppose.” Silence. Dorian casts about for a topic to break it. Preferably one that isn't about cheese or the fact that Dorian feels slightly jealous of Bull's dead beloved, because they've talked of nothing but cheese in the run-up to the party and the second one is a fact he's taking to his grave, thank you very much. “Oh, I was meaning to mention. The other day, this elf tried to get into the building as I was on my way out. Seemed a bit suspicious.”

“Could have just been visiting someone. Or on a delivery.”

“I suppose you'd know all about that sort of thing.” At these words, Bull turns, looking slightly alarmed. Dorian hastens to explain himself. “Apologies if that's an offensive stereotype, I am well aware that you haven't actually made any of that particular genre of porn.”

For no reason at all, Bull relaxes again. “Ma'am hates that cliché. Mostly because it's unprofessional on the part of the delivery boy, I think.”

“Yes, well, anyway, he made some vague comment about knowing someone who used to live in the building, was a bit rude, and then left.” Dorian shrugs, nabbing another one of the freshly made cheese toasties. “Made me think of how Erimond managed to get in here. Is there a residents' association or anything? Somebody in charge of security?”

“Nothing official. I'll mention it to Cadash.”

“Your shouty dwarf friend.” Dorian says, vaguely remembering her. “Well, one of.” Rocky is also quite shouty a lot of the time. Maybe it's a dwarf thing.

“She knows everyone in the building, and she's kind of in security. Well, a security-related job, anyway.” Bull says, which is _extremely_ vague, but if it keeps anyone else his father might have employed out of the building, he'll take vague.

There's definitely something off, though. Of course, it could be something nothing to do with Dorian at all-- a bad day at work, perhaps, although he tries not to think about Bull at work too much because such thoughts are by turns either simply far too distracting, or far too laden with complex emotions it's probably not his place to have. “That would be appreciated. Now come on-- if you spend all night in here you will miss the carving of the Grand Cheese. Skinner seems to be preparing for it with, dare I say, girlish excitement?”

“I heard that.” Skinner calls from the living room. “It's going on the Grudge List.”

“Now I'm going to have to insist you tear yourself away from the stove and come protect me.” Dorian says, although since the Grudge List of things Skinner's not forgiving him for is already quite long and she hasn't actually stabbed him yet, he feels he's still got manoeuvring room left yet.

Finally, Bull looks at him. “Yeah. I can do that.”

Not exactly extreme enthusiasm, but Dorian tugs him into the living room anyway. “Honoured Guests!” Rocky says, having climbed up onto a chair next to where Skinner stands with what looks like an actual _machete_ , hovering murderously over the Grand Cheese. “We request your attention for-- the cutting of the cheese!”

“You are all children.” Dorian says, over the inevitable chorus of fart noises. Bull makes a sort of giggle-snort next to him. He can't believe this is actually his life.

He can't believe how glad he is for it.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [r/OurMutualEx](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13262367) by [iodhadh](https://archiveofourown.org/users/iodhadh/pseuds/iodhadh)




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